Bloody Shakespeare
by WhyAye
Summary: NOT NEW BUT NOW A PROPER X-OVER.  Two fellow officers disappear. No bodies have been found but Lewis knows a crime has been committed due to the involvement of a certain Elizabethan playwright. Innocent thinks they need help and calls in an old friend.
1. Chapter 1

.

I

.

A fidgety silence settled over the group of police officers, all of them sergeants, sitting restlessly at tables in a stark, well-lit room. This was the date and time set for the dreaded OSPRE Inspector's Examination, Part One: the multiple-choice part of the exam that decided which sergeants were eligible for a chance at Part Two—and future promotion—and which were stuck at their current rank for at least another year. The examination should have begun ten minutes ago. But it _hadn't_, and so far, no explanation had been offered to the dozens of nervous examinees.

One sergeant was less edgy than most. Detective Sergeant James Hathaway was secure in his ability to pass the test, in all probability with a ranking of Excellent. Any edginess he felt was due to uncertainty about when he'd be able to relax with a cigarette, rather than uncertainty about the subject matter. But not everyone was so confident. DS Macklin, who'd only recently attained her current rank, was less certain than she had been months ago when she applied to take the exam. At the time, it had seemed ambitious but doable. Now, it merely seemed ambitious. DS Fordham, who had failed the test last year, looked as though he'd pulled an all-nighter, always a mistake the night before a big exam. How Fordham had ever made sergeant, Hathaway didn't know, and it was unlikely he'd get any farther. The passing rate for second-time takers was very low and Fordham had to be well past fifty and was utter rubbish as a detective, in James's opinion. Sergeants Greaves and Lipton, normally such close mates as to be nicknamed "The Twins," were polar opposites: Greaves looked glum—hopeless, really—and Lipton was chattering away at Hargrove on his other side, manic and zooming on adrenaline. For her part, Hargrove was staring straight ahead, probably not hearing anything Lipton was saying. A single mother, every step up the ladder was a struggle for her and although she was bright and in her mid-forties, she had so far only made sergeant. Too many distractions, James thought. Not likely to stay the course if she doesn't pass this. Others in the gathering showed a wide range of emotions, but most were from other stations throughout Oxfordshire and the West Country and Hathaway did not recognize them. But he knew each one had a story, and each one had worked hard to get to this point.

James shook his head. What a motley bunch.

Full thirteen minutes after the scheduled start time, a member of the examination staff entered the room and moved to the front. The low conversation came to a nearly complete stop.

"I'm sorry for the hold-up; one of our assessors has been delayed. We've brought in a replacement who is now here, and if you'll all take your seats, we'll get underway. And in three very short hours, you'll get your lives back." There was nervous laughter at this feeble humor. But something in his tone caught Hathaway's attention. There was an undercurrent of worry that told him the delay was something more significant than a nonfunctioning alarm clock or a flat tire.

The assessors filed into the room and took their places, stationed at various locations in the room. They would monitor the taking and scoring of the examination, and make decisions about the borderline cases.

Hathaway's placid exterior cracked for a moment when he recognized one of the assessors: his own Chief Superintendent, Jean Innocent. He caught her eye and cocked his head in inquiry. Surely, she would have mentioned that she was one of the assessors. In fact, he was certain her name was not on the list of assessors he'd received, because he would have reported a possible conflict; that was why they were sent the names ahead of the exam. The answer hit him a moment later: she must be the substitute, brought in at the last minute.

She gave him a stiff smile of acknowledgement and then took her place, blanking her expression to stare through him and all the other sergeants there. Hathaway made a mental note that he needed to report the potential conflict before he left the testing centre.

And the examination began.

.

II

.

"Come." Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent looked at her office door expectantly as it opened, and smiled when the lanky form of her favorite detective sergeant—not that she'd admit it—crossed the threshold. "Ah, Hathaway. Is this about the Inspector's examination? How do you think you did?"

He blinked, not expecting this topic. "Erm, I'm sure I did fine Ma'am. Yeah, fine. No, I wanted to see you about something else."

"Then what can I do for you?"

"Ma'am, it's about the Swanson case. Well, and DS Stevenson, too. I keep thinking these disappearances strike a familiar chord, but no one else I ask thinks that. I was wondering if you thought so. With the notes and all . . . ?"

James was referring to his most recent case assignment, the rather sudden and unexpected vanishing of DI Swanson—the absent assessor. A cryptic note had been sent to the station Tuesday—the day of the exam—bearing Swanson's name and reading simply, "_If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?_" By this morning, nearly a week's time had been lost because Innocent, thinking this was a simple matter of tracking down where Swanson had wandered off to, had at first assigned the case to the team of what she privately considered to be her least competent detectives. She regretted that decision now, as well as her delay in reassigning it. _Your mind's not on the job, Jean. Get it together._

The file she had handed over to Hathaway and his boss, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis, was discouragingly thin. The few known facts of the case mimicked those surrounding the disappearance of DS Stevenson over two years earlier, after which a similar note was received: "_My near'st and dearest enemy_." The file for that case was also thin, and when leads failed to arise as the months passed, the case had slipped in priority. But it had been revived when Hathaway identified the similarities.

But James's intense focus changed from the case to his Chief Super when he realized her eyes were somewhat red and puffy, and she was unwrapping a pottery vase she had pulled from a carton on her desk. Several unfamiliar pieces stood on that surface, and two framed photographs that Hathaway had never seen before were leaning against the wall. He concentrated his attention on the vase, picking it up when she set it next to the other things on her desk.

"Interesting glaze, I've never seen something like this before . . . Not typical for wood-fired, I think?" Hathaway looked up at the Chief Super, his thumb lightly brushing an angry black streak across the otherwise placid, pebbled surface of the vase. Metallic red flecked the streak, catching the light as he turned the piece over to check the artist's mark: a capital T with a branch partway down on the right side, like a T and an F grafted together.

Innocent studied him, appreciatively. "You know ceramics, Hathaway?" When Hathaway tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, she continued. "Yes, wood-fired, but this style is extremely uncommon. I was told the artist adds organic elements and the metals in them produce unpredictable results. Sometimes, they're not so attractive. Other times . . ." she trailed off, her attention caught for a second or two, and she seemed lost in her thoughts.

"'Other times', Ma'am?" James prompted, masquerading the concern in his voice as interest in the vase.

"Other times, they capture the beauty of a world we can only wish to live in." She stared past Hathaway, past the vase and the window and past everything else currently in view.

Hathaway paused, unsure of how to offer support to his superior officer, but feeling the need to do so anyway. He scanned the things she had brought in. "Ma'am . . . are these new pieces?" His tone left little doubt that he sought very different information.

She frowned a moment, then he could see her release the guard on her caution. She needed him to be trustworthy. And he knew he would need to exercise his seminary training in discretion.

She must have been satisfied by what she saw in him. "No, James, they're not new. These are things I've had at home and I wanted to bring them here to protect them." She cut off the questions that rose to his lips, anticipating them easily. "Mister Innocent and I have had a bit of . . . rough sailing, of late. We agreed over the weekend to put some enforced distance into our marriage, not for too long, I hope. He's supposed to be staying at our London flat for the week; he'll be back early Friday." She took the vase from him and studied him a while, seeing if he understood and accepted the terms on which she would offer further information.

Inhaling audibly, she continued. "Some of the things I own remind me of the time before I was married. Those that are precious to me, I want to ensure are safe in case my husband—" she seemed to check herself at the utterance "—decides to confiscate or possibly destroy my personal property."

Hathaway maintained his mild countenance, and this encouraged her to continue. "This vase, for example . . . I spotted this in an art gallery while I was at an administrative conference in Edinburgh a few years back. Not that I have extraordinary memories of the conference, but it serves to remind me of the days when I was a mere detective constable in that lovely old city. Northumbrian artist, if I recall correctly. I couldn't afford anything like this then, so I had no mementos to cherish from my time in Edinburgh." She monitored Hathaway's expression the way a tiger monitors the activity of its next prey.

Hathaway blinked. "I didn't know you served in Scotland, Ma'am."

Her expression softened a little. "Yes, I was in 'Auld Reekie' for a year or two before moving onward." She reflected. "Onward and upward, right?"

Hathaway smiled reflexively. "Which brings me back to my initial question, Ma'am. Do you see a similarity between the disappearance of a detective several years ago in Edinburgh and the disappearances of Swanson and Stevenson?"

She furrowed her brow. "I'd forgotten about that. What was that, three or four years ago? DI . . . Foster, wasn't it?"

Hathaway nodded with the satisfaction of having an answer to that niggling question of the officer's name. "And there was a note sent to the station with a Shakespearean quotation like this one. Any idea if they ever solved it, Ma'am?"

She pursed her lips to help her concentrate, but could not pull any more information from her mind. "Let me phone one of my old colleagues, I think he's still up there, and I'll get the details, alright?"

Hathaway smiled broadly. "Thank you, Ma'am." He turned for the door, but before exiting the office, he turned back. He paused before speaking, unsure if he would be overstepping an unseen boundary. But the policeman in him overcame his caution. "He's not . . . injuring you, is he, Ma'am? Mister Innocent?"

He was grateful that she smiled at his concern. "No, James. I don't think he would do that. I wouldn't let it get to that. But he does sometimes take his anger out on inanimate things that can't protect themselves."

"If you, erm . . . need anything, just say."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

.

III

.

Jean considered the phone for a long time before picking up the handset and dialing. She wanted to make this call herself, rather than have Mary, her sergeant, make the connection and then put it through to her. She wondered briefly if this was a good idea and almost rang off, but pushed that thought from her mind when the call was picked up, miles away in Edinburgh.

"John Rebus."

"Hello, John, it's Jean Innocent—erm, Jean McConnell. DC McConnell is probably how you remember me."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Or maybe you don't remember me at all." _Why did she feel crushed by this?_

"Oh, no, Jean, I remember you. I remember you very well. How could I forget?" His accent made it sound like "verra well." He took a breath and before she could speak, he continued, his voice gentle. "What has you calling me after all these years? Changed your mind? Or checking to see if I've matured any since we last parted?"

She could hear that he was smiling and felt herself blushing a little. "Actually, it's business, John. If you remember me, I'm sure you also remember the disappearance of DI Foster. Was that ever solved?"

He growled a little. "Not to my satisfaction. It was officially decided he made himself disappear."

"Ah. Then I definitely need your help. We've had a couple of detectives vanish, too, complete with notes sent here, quotations from Shakespeare, again. Do you know if there were any others like this?"

"Aye, we had an advocate leave with nothing but Shakespeare in the post; criminal defense counsel. No one here would listen when I said they were related. Same outcome on that one, no real result. But it wasn't my case, so I was shoved off it."

Innocent sucked in air and held it in her mouth. She knew what she wanted to do, knew she might be opening herself up to what could be nothing but trouble. But the past was long gone and she knew Rebus would respect her rank, regardless of any history between them. She found herself focusing on the vase Hathaway had admired earlier. And she made her decision.

"John, I wonder if you'd be willing to come down here and help us on this. I can make the request come from higher up if that's necessary. And you can bring a sergeant of your own, if you'd like. I'd really . . ." No, she couldn't say _that_. Couldn't admit that she maybe wanted to revisit those years in Edinburgh.

Rebus waited a beat for her to continue. "You'd really _what_, Jean?"

She was blushing intensely now, and was glad he couldn't see her. He had always been good at getting her into a state. "Erm, . . . well, I understand you've had considerable experience with serial killers. Now, we haven't found any bodies yet, and there's no evidence these cases involve suspicious deaths. But if there's a chance that's what's going on here, not only would your memory of the Foster case be useful, it would be good to have someone like you on the case, even if it's a long shot." She finished lamely. "That's what."

She could well imagine the twinkle in his dark eyes, the crooked half-smile he must be wearing at the moment.

"As it happens, I'm between cases. So make your call to DCS Templer and we'll be on our way." He knew the name would give her pause.

"DCS Templer? _Gill Templer?_"

"One and the same, Pet. I expect she'll remember you fondly, too. Just try not to call her any of the names you used back when you first met her, eh?"

Innocent sighed heavily. "You never did make things easy for a woman, did you, John?" Not expecting an answer—and not being offered one—she continued. "You and your sergeant grab a morning train tomorrow and ring me when you're about an hour away. I'll have a car meet you at the station. And if Gill insists on keeping you to herself, I'll get someone higher up to order it." She rang off brusquely, already dreading the call to DCS Templer. But she felt satisfied that she was making the right move, bringing Rebus down to Oxford. Maybe a bit of nostalgia would help her remember just what she found so appealing in her husband. And maybe the presence of one of her former suitors would stir him to a bit of renewed passion. _This just might be my Plan B_.

Hundreds of miles away, Rebus replaced the handset on the phone and stared at it for a second or two, a ghost of a smile flitting over his face. He'd give a lot for the ability to listen in on the conversation between Jean and DCS Templer. Then he looked up, across the space of the office, to where a blond, female head was bent over a desk.

"Siobhan!"

She whirled around, her eyes questioning.

Her guv'nor was grinning broadly. "Pack your bags and grab your thinking cap, Sassenach! We're off to Oxford in the morning!"


	2. Chapter 2

.

I

.

Hathaway and his superior officer, DI Robbie Lewis, were sharing a pint in a pub that students generally avoided. This was its finest feature; the beer was nothing special and the customers tended to be a bit coarse. But Lewis was not in the mood for "that Oxford bollocks," as he termed it when his patience ran out with the snobbery and politics inherent in any activity closely related to the University. So here they were.

Despite their very different faces, they both wore identical dour expressions. Neither knew where to look next to track down the missing DI Swanson. They had him leaving his car in a car park on Monday of the previous week—the evening before he was to serve as exam assessor. But his car had still been parked there on Tuesday, and the attendant from that night had not been located so far. A small bloodstain near his car was confirmed as Swanson's, but the most that did was verify that he'd likely met with some level of violence. Lewis and Hathaway had poured their energy into the case as soon as Innocent had reassigned it to them on Monday. But now it was Tuesday, and another day had gone by with them no closer to finding out what had happened to Swanson. They were stumped, and were hoping the beer would jar loose a few brain cells and give them ideas of where their investigation should go next.

"We need inspiration, Hathaway. Can't you pray for some, or something that'll help? _Anything?_"

James looked at the inspector a bit incredulously. "What, you think I haven't been doing that all along? That I'd be relying on your wit alone to get us through this case?"

Lewis gave him one of those disapproving expressions he'd been using so much in the last two days, but ignored the wind-up. "He had no family, no lovers, and no friends to speak of, none that would do something like this. Maybe he took someone's favorite parking place? Looked sideways at the wrong man's wife? And what's the connection with Stevenson?" He exhaled out one side of his mouth resignedly. "Ah, I dunno."

"It can't have been a heat-of-the-moment thing; else, where did the note come from?" Hathaway stared at a dark stain on the floor, wondering vaguely about its source. Not finding an answer, he passed his gaze around the pub's inhabitants, pausing briefly when he came across a young, intelligent-looking blond woman, who appeared to be there by herself. _Funny that no one is hitting her up_.

Lewis shook his head. "Ian Swanson is about as gentle a copper as you could hope for. Never stroppy with anyone."

"Is that why they assigned him to assessing the inspector's exam? Not irritable enough for regular police work?"

Lewis simply rolled his eyes at his sergeant. Then he picked up his glass, drained it, and swirled the bit of foam that remained in the bottom. He gave James a weary glance, then sighed. "My round, is it?"

"Yes, thank you, Sir." Hathaway smiled for the first time. "And while you're getting those, I'm going to visit the smoking lounge." He straightened his long body from the bench and headed for the pub's back garden. Sighing again, Lewis gathered the glasses and headed for the bar.

James leaned his backside against the first empty bit of wall he found, not far past the door he'd come out of. Using an economy of motion, he pulled a cigarette and lit it, drawing deeply. With his ability to concentrate thus restored, he glanced around to see what else was going on in the garden. There was another man sipping at a pint and smoking: a dark and compact man with a rather ordinary face. But something about the way he moved captured James's attention. Spare, controlled motion, nothing wasted. And not only did the man capture Hathaway's attention, but also the attention of three large, scruffy fellows who emerged from the pub door and approached the smaller man in what Hathaway perceived as an intentionally threatening manner.

"So, Jock, what brings you down to civilization? They run out of beer up in your country?"

_Ah, so that's it_. Hathaway thought. Locals not happy with the presence of a Scotsman in their midst.

The man seemed unconcerned with the nature of their approach, and he stood up, smiling genially. "Is this what you call 'beer' here?" He waved his pint in the air. "Tastes more like pish to me." He mimed urinating while pouring the remaining contents of his glass onto the ground in front of him, then gave a wide, artificial smile to the men. "Oh, aye, that's better." Complete with a pretend shake and zip-up.

Hathaway was not surprised when the locals took high offense at this.

"Bloody sheepshagger. Oxford piss tastes better than any Scottish beer."

Another one added, "I don't think there _is_ such a thing as Scottish beer. Isn't piss the only thing they drink up there?"

The man continued to smile, but Hathaway noticed he altered his stance, set down his glass, and was prepared to face an assault. _This bloke is trained in hand-to-hand combat_, he thought.

With a voice so still that it could have come from a marble cobra, the man faced his would-be assailants and squinted. "What do you lads want from me? Are you looking for a little excitement, is that it?"

For a moment, the three were stymied. This Scot wasn't quite like those they'd chased out of this pub in the past. But they'd had enough to drink that they lacked the judgment and caution a more sober man might have had.

One of the locals charged the man, fists flying. The Scot deftly tripped him and clocked him hard on the nape of the neck as the man fell, face-first, to the ground. A targeted strike, hitting exactly the right point; the man was out cold. As the other two circled, one of them grabbed the abandoned glass, cracked it on a nearby table, and brandished a seriously effective cutting weapon at the man. Appearing unimpressed, he drew on the cigarette between his lips and waited for the assault.

The two men came at him at once, the broken glass flashing in the sun. Before James could detach himself from the wall, both were on the ground, writhing in pain. The Scot was holding his left hand to a jagged gash in his neck from which blood dripped into his shirt collar. But Hathaway could tell it was not much more than a superficial wound. He continued to merely watch, satisfied that so far, this matter was not worthy of police interference.

The third man had regained consciousness and was struggling to stand up. The other two had recovered their feet and were circling menacingly. At this point, the Scot pulled back from them and flashed a warrant card at his assailants. "Look, ya stupid sods, police. Back off."

The one nearest the warrant card peered at it. "Police?" He scoffed. "_Scottish_ police, meaning you have no jurisdiction here. You're nothing, off-duty." He smirked. "You're dead," he added. He still held the glass, which now shone with blood.

James saw the Scotsman's eyes narrow as he sized up his options for taking out these two remaining attackers. And, Hathaway realized, the Scot could do it, though it would not be without grievous bodily harm to his opponents. James stepped forward, warrant card out and showing.

"But _I_ have jurisdiction. And you three are under arrest for assaulting a police officer."

The third man scrambled up and they all looked at each other, looked at Hathaway, and then took off over the garden fence with an astonishing show of speed. Hathaway made no effort to follow. The Scot scanned him up and down, weighing him.

"Well, a toff Oxfordshire copper, stepping in to rescue poor Jock. Only, your heroism isn't needed, I'm fully capable of handling a couple of prats like that m'self." He took his hand away from his neck, checked the quantity of blood on it, and replaced it.

Hathaway stared him straight in the eyes. "I acted solely for practical reasons; the local hospital is seriously understaffed and doesn't need a pointless cockfight to fill three or four more beds."

The Scotsman snorted. "Fair enough." He held out his right hand, and James shook it. "DI John Rebus, Edinburgh police." He smiled crookedly.

"DS James Hathaway, at your service." He offered a handkerchief for the bleeding and checked the state of the cigarette that still hung from Rebus's lips. "Need another smoke, or shall we see about replacing that piss you poured out?"

Rebus smiled broadly. "I could use another pint. And a wee dram from north of the border, if that sort of thing is available around here." He evaluated Hathaway more closely as he wiped his neck. "And I'll introduce you to my sergeant. I think she might be your type."

This made James stop in his tracks. "My type?"

"She's English." Rebus flashed his eyebrows. "Posh."

James rapidly put two and two together. "Ah, the solo blond we saw inside."

"Sounds like Siobhan." A pause. "We?"

"My guv'nor is here, too. DI Lewis." A thought clicked in his head. "You here on holiday? Seems like you might have picked a more genial pub."

Rebus snorted. "Not exactly. I don't think Oxford would be anywhere near my top ten—no, make that hundred—choice holiday destinations."

Hathaway took a calculated gamble. "So, did DCS Innocent call you down here, by any chance?"

Rebus assessed him very, very carefully. Appreciatively.

"Let's go inside."

.

II

.

Hathaway introduced Rebus and Lewis to each other, and Rebus beckoned his sergeant over and introduced her. Her face clouded with rebuke.

"We've been in town what, half an hour? And already you've lost blood." She shook her head at him as she took the chair Hathaway offered. "Sir." She added, as an obvious afterthought.

"The Chief Super called them down to help on the Swanson and Stevenson cases. DI Rebus worked on something very similar a couple of years ago in Edinburgh," Hathaway explained to his boss.

Lewis narrowed his eyes. "Well, that was nice of her." He tapped his fingers on his glass, then started up. "Would you all please excuse me a moment?" He pulled out his mobile. "I just need to make a quick call."

He went out to the garden before he dialed his boss.

"What is it, Robbie?" DCS Innocent skipped any introductory pleasantries.

"Ah, Ma'am, about these two Edinburgh detectives you've dumped on us. You never said you were calling them in."

She huffed. "They were supposed to arrive around noon today and I planned to tell you then, but they missed their connecting train. By the time they arrived, you and Hathaway had already left. I assumed it could wait until morning, and I sent them off. How did you find out, anyway?"

"We ran into them down the pub."

"No surprise. Best place to look if you're trying to find John Rebus."

"Why, exactly, do we need outside help on this case?" He couldn't quite keep the umbrage out of his voice.

"Oh, don't get all territorial on me, Lewis, you can't win that fight. Believe me, John can lift his leg on twice as many trees as you can."

He resisted making a retort, but his knuckles tightened on his mobile. "So who's in charge, then, us being equal ranks and all?"

"You both report to me. Siobhan will report to John, and everyone else will report to you as usual. Now put your spear down and play nice."

"Ma'am."

"Oh, Robbie, one more thing—"

Lewis was not smiling when he rang off and returned to the table. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"It appears there's been a bit of a hiccup in the lodging arrangements, due to your missing that connection and arriving so late. The hotel gave your rooms away."

Siobhan rolled her eyes at her boss. "I _told_ you there wasn't time for that pint."

Rebus shrugged. "I had a powerful thirst."

"You _always_ have a powerful thirst, Sir."

He ignored the jibe and turned to Lewis. "So where does that leave us?"

"The Chief Super hasn't been able to find anything yet. So for tonight, I will put you up in me spare room, if that'll be alright. And if it's alright with your sergeant, I have a lady friend with a spare room in a lovely house. Unless she has something else going on, I'm sure she'll agree to house Sergeant Clarke if I ask her nicely."

Hathaway couldn't stop his snort, and it earned him a glare.

Siobhan's eyes darted between the two Oxford cops. _There's something unspoken here_. "That's fine, I'd appreciate it."

Lewis half turned away to make the call.

"_'Lady friend'?_" Rebus whispered to Hathaway. "Is that the same thing as 'girlfriend'?"

"Not as far as I am aware."

A moment later, Lewis turned back to the group and addressed Siobhan. "That's set then. You'll be staying with Doctor Laura Hobson, she's our pathologist."

Siobhan nodded her thanks as Lewis resumed his seat and took a long pull from his pint. He drummed his fingers on the table a few times, then turned to Rebus.

"So tell me what it is about your old case that makes you invaluable to us." Lewis felt an inward stab of shame at his own tone. He had no reason to be resentful, but he couldn't help the fact that something about Rebus made him get prickly.

Rebus stared at his empty pint glass. "A few years ago we had a DI who simply disappeared one day. DI Nathan Foster. All we could find was a note that arrived the morning he went missing. Some bit from Shakespeare . . . 'smiling villain,' something. I can't remember."

"_'O villain, villain, smiling, damnéd villain! My tables,—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain—_'"That bit?" Hathaway, of course.

Rebus's dark eyes went from Hathaway's smirk to Lewis's scowl and back to the smirk. "Graduate entry scheme?"

Lewis twisted a smile. "He only thinks he's smart because he probably passed Part One of his Inspector's last week, first try." Then he frowned. "Our missing DI Swanson was supposed to be one of the assessors for it."

Sergeant Clarke had been thinking. "DI Foster . . . wasn't he—"

"Siobhan!" Rebus cut off her question, his eyes locking on hers. Cold steel. "Isn't it your round?"

She recovered quickly, snapping her mouth shut and twitching a smile. Then she scooped up his glass and looked inquiringly at the others. They waved her off; neither Lewis nor Hathaway had consumed even half of his yet. Lewis wanted to see if Hathaway found the interruption significant, but he was aware that Rebus was watching them, and so instead he took another mouthful of ale and watched Siobhan at the bar.

By the time they were finishing their pints, the two inspectors had settled on a kind of truce and the sergeants seemed to getting along well. _Maybe too well_, Lewis thought as he watched how close Hathaway had moved next to Siobhan Clarke. On the other hand, their topic of conversation was hardly intimate. Siobhan, who planned to take her Inspector's Exam in a year's time, was pumping James for information about all the special preparation courses that were available. Although Hathaway vigorously recommended the course he had used, his peer was skeptical.

"How about you let me know how well some of the others in your course did, and if it's a massive triumph, I'll sign up with that one and let them know you recommended it? Maybe they'll give you a discount on Part Two." She smirked at him. James grinned.

Lewis could see that Rebus's sergeant's good looks were not her best feature. She had a sharp mind and he could tell she had the ability, as he'd had as a sergeant, to plow through piles of mind-numbing donkey work and find the gems that could solve a case. He leaned closer to Rebus, keeping his voice low.

"Bright lass, how come she's not going for Inspector this year?"

Rebus twisted his lips. "I won't let her. If I lose her, it won't be easy to get another that good." He studied his Oxford counterpart. "Aren't you worried you'll lose yours?"

"There aren't any openings right now. Even when he passes, he'll be stuck for a while. And I keep moving closer to retirement."

John snorted a bit at the truth of that. "Ach, aren't we all."

Lewis furrowed his brow. "Actually, if we can't find Swanson, I'm not certain what they'll do next year about the exam. Swanson has been at it for years. They'll have to rope in another officer for the job."

John squinted. "Why not you? _Especially_ if you're the one who can't find him."

Lewis gaped a moment, then a look of disgust filled his face. "They can't pick me, I never upped for the assessor's course. That's the first thing Jean Innocent tried to do when I got back from detachment, bundle me off to Training. Dug me heels in then, and have done ever since." He shook his head, remembering how long it was before she grudgingly came to respect his abilities as a detective. "Wouldn't that just make her day?"

"Jean always was a strong-willed lass. Not that it always worked to her benefit." He smiled slowly, his thoughts in the past.

Lewis considered him closely. _Had there been something between him and Innocent?_ Unlikely, they were hardly compatible. He stood decisively as the last glass was drained.

"Right. Let's be on our way, then. You have a car?"

Rebus nodded. "Sergeant Clarke and I will follow you to the quack's house, then you can give me a lift home." He could see Lewis biting his tongue, and failing.

"Laura Hobson's no quack." _Enough ice in that for a whole bottle of cheap whisky_. John smiled to himself. He had intended the needle to provoke a response, and it did_. Whatever this 'lady friend' was, she was more than just a friend_.

He stared Lewis straight in the eyes. "Sorry." It was clear he was not.

Studying Rebus, Hathaway voiced a concern he had. "Are you alright to drive, Sir?"

Rebus snorted. "You think three pints and a nip would do anything to a Scotsman's driving? I'm fine, Sassenach."

James frowned, puzzled at the unfamiliar word. "_Sassenach?_"

Lewis rolled his eyes at the act Rebus was putting on and explained, his voice impatient. "It's something the Scots call the English."

Siobhan looked exasperated. "He's right, too. It takes at least half a dozen whiskies before his driving gets any worse than it already is." She got a frown for that.

The two Edinburgh detectives headed off to their hired car and Hathaway turned to find his own vehicle. But Lewis put a hand on his arm.

"They're keeping something back, I guarantee it. The way he cut off whatever his sergeant was going to ask . . ." Lewis's eyes bored into Hathaway's. "Get close to her. Get to know her, get her to trust you. If we get anything out of that pair, it'll come from her lips."

"Are you saying you want me to get to know her lips?" James smirked.

But Lewis dished back. "I'm _ordering_ you to get to know her lips."

Hathaway touched his fingers to his brow. "_Yes, Sir_." He headed for his car.

Rebus waited with his hand on the gearshift for Lewis to start his engine. Clarke was sitting next to him, frowning, her forehead puckering.

"Talk to me, Sergeant."

"Why did you stop me asking about DI Foster? He'd been an assessor at one time, too, hadn't he? I remember him talking about that horrible exam. Aren't we supposed to be _helping_ them?"

His expression said he had expected her to have it figured out by now. "I always suspected that Foster's disappearance was an inside piece of work. This one could be, too, and Jean knows it. Especially given that Swanson and Foster were both assessors. That means everyone here is a suspect, particularly anyone who recently took the exam. We share information with this comedy duo on an as-needed basis only, until we can rule them out."

Rebus squinted, speaking to his sergeant but not looking at her.

"That Hathaway has a lot going on in his head that he doesn't happen to mention. He's the one who made the link between their Swanson and our Foster. Get friendly with him, Siobhan, but don't let him know about our 'insider' theory. Be his pal. Be his 'lady friend.'" He cocked his eyebrows in her direction.

"Are you asking me to go to bed with him?" She looked incredulous. Or disgusted_. Or intrigued_.

"Whatever you're willing to do."

"I don't think he knows anything his guv'nor doesn't. They seem pretty tight."

John noticed she hadn't objected to his suggestion. "It doesn't matter if he knows any more or any less than Lewis, he's our only real option. We've got nae chance of getting that Geordie to spill, do we?" He smiled in mock helplessness.


	3. Chapter 3

.

I

.

They left Siobhan chatting happily with Laura Hobson over glasses of wine. The Edinburgh sergeant had to admit John Rebus had gone farther out of his way than usual to create tension when the men brought her to the door, blatantly sizing up Laura as though he were considering purchasing her. Lewis had with subtlety maneuvered himself protectively between the doctor and the Scotsman, hackles almost visibly rising on both men. She had carefully watched the interactions of the doctor and Lewis, trying to spot clues of something more than friendship between them. She knew her boss would be happy for any insight into the personality of his new colleague. But although they gave each other what looked like penetrating, intimate gazes, they never so much as touched, and within moments, Lewis was out of the house and driving off with Rebus riding shotgun. Clarke got to keep the car since the likelihood of Lewis and Rebus being able to travel together was exponentially greater than that of her and the pathologist having the same destination.

The picture she was now getting of Lewis and Hathaway was considerably different from how she had perceived them in the pub. Both, Laura assured her, were very gentle men—gentlemen, too—and astonishingly successful detectives. They used their brains, but in different ways that complemented each other. She learned that Laura had known Robbie for a long time, well over ten years, and that she had seen him survive great personal loss, including his beloved wife. 'Seen,' but nothing more; Lewis seemed unable to let anyone touch him, ever again. Clarke understood that this saddened the doctor but also strengthened her resolve to remain at his side—and never any nearer than that—until given the sign that closeness would be welcome. And this, Siobhan thought, made them intimate in a way most lovers never were.

She received less information about Hathaway. Laura focused chiefly on her old friend, and so had considerably less insight into what made the lanky sergeant who he was. Moreover, Siobhan learned that he was incredibly private, and Laura supposed even the Inspector who spent so much time with him knew little beyond what he saw day to day. Getting to be Hathaway's "lady friend" would be no easy task.

In turn, Laura received Siobhan's view of her own inspector. Laura already knew from Robbie's chill manner that he did not like the uncouth Scotsman, though she wasn't clear why.

"I'm certain he thought he was protecting me somehow, but Robbie normally accepts predatory men with a roll of his eyes, at least until they begin to interfere in a case. He knows I can defend myself. And anyway, it seemed to me it was mostly an act on your inspector's part."

Clarke shook her head. "It _was_ an act, he usually is very charming around women. And he's been worse ever since he learned you might give him the means to hit a nerve. I really don't understand why he's so bent on getting under Inspector Lewis's skin. Northern, working-class, unpretentious men like that, you'd think they'd get on famously."

"Hmm. Well, Robbie's not one for charades or pretenses." She thought a minute, and insight came to her. "It's a psychological defense, isn't it? Make yourself so unlikable that you don't have to concern yourself about whether people will like you."

The younger woman studied her. "You're right, you know. That would be John, exactly. He always expects people to think the worst of him, so he makes certain he doesn't disappoint." She smiled and shook her head. She liked Laura, wanted her to be on their side. "Deep inside, he's really a big softie. Women love him, he has old girlfriends everywhere we go. Like your Chief Super, she used to be one of his, you know. Supposedly they're _ex_-girlfriends, but half the time he manages to find his way back into their beds. And he always falls for a sob story. Don't you dare tell him I said that."

Hobson smiled conspiratorially. "Let me work on Robbie. Stubborn as he can be, he actually does listen to me. Besides, Jean Innocent sprang this on them. They had no idea you two were coming down until they met you in the pub. A little warning might have made a big difference; Jean's the one Robbie should be cross with."

Siobhan sighed. "With Rebus, no amount of warning is sufficient." A thought occurred that gave her concern. "Lewis doesn't get physical over differences like this, does he?"

Laura stared. "You mean, like a fistfight?" She was incredulous. "_Never!_"

"Well, it's all too common with Rebus. I think it's his favorite way of expressing anger or frustration. _And_, he's very good at it."

The doctor considered her through half-closed eyes. _Was this meant as a threat?_ But no, she could see the Edinburgh sergeant was, if anything, dismayed at her boss's tendency toward incivility.

But Siobhan perked up as she added a final thought: "On the other hand, there's no one more loyal, and if he's on your side, he'll really go to the mat for you when you're in a scrape."

.

II

.

Things were quieter at the other house providing temporary lodgings. Lewis had offered Rebus a drink (which was, of course, accepted), put clean linens on the spare bed, and gotten out fresh towels. Rebus declined the offer of something to eat; Lewis didn't have much in the house to back up that offer, anyway. Rebus's attempts to engage Lewis in conversation were met with a polite, but firm, refusal to provide anything but minimal answers, nothing personal revealed and nothing personal asked.

Rebus browsed the CD collection, his opinion of his colleague beginning to rise as he scanned the shelves. Maybe this bloke wasn't a mere glorified woodentop, risen above his level of competency. There was some good stuff here. He noticed the photograph of Lewis with a woman, no doubt his now-dead wife. Innocent had warned him—no, _threatened_ him—to steer clear of asking Lewis anything touching on this topic. And there was a photograph of Lewis with a younger woman, who resembled him closely enough to be his daughter. _Just about Sammy's age_.

John wasn't sure why he had approached the situation so combatively; it was silly. Sure, he felt out of place in Oxford, but it was obvious Lewis didn't fit in, either. He resolved to sand down his rough edges and try a friendly approach to find some common ground. He turned to find a place to sit down, and noticed a mottled brown cat curled up in what looked like the most comfortable chair.

He gestured. "Okay if I move it?"

"Ah, sorry. Here, I'll get him out of there." Lewis scooped up the cat and laid him down on another chair, still curled up. The cat jumped up and trotted away, looking offended.

Rebus watched it go. "My ex had a cat."

"Oh, aye? '_Had_'? Did something happen to it?"

"I killed it." _Shit_. Nice answer, John. "Accidentally, though. I put it outside . . ." _Too late_.

Lewis's sour expression indicated that Rebus's attempt at casual conversation had not improved their relationship. In truth, Lewis knew this was all posturing and negotiating on the part of the Scot, who was only trying to sort out how he fit into this investigation. But he was tired of the game-playing and bollocks, and he was angry, he realized, at the Chief Super for going over his head and bringing these two detectives down here without so much as a by-your-leave. He wondered how she knew John Rebus and wanted to ask, but decided he'd rather ask _her_ than _him_.

At last he took a deep breath and made eye contact with Rebus. "Anything against an early start tomorrow? Can you be ready by half seven?"

Rebus made his best attempt at a conciliatory face. "You tell me when, Sir, and I'll be there."

Lewis stared a moment, then snorted. "Maybe we'll both be better at this tomorrow, eh?" He headed toward his bedroom.

Rebus looked somewhat despondent. "Well, if it's me you're talking about, I'm not known for my skill at personal improvement."


	4. Chapter 4

.

I

.

They were all gathered in the incident room the next morning, poring over computers and case files. Although Lewis and Rebus were of the same mind that the disappearances probably were all related and of a criminal nature, Lewis could tell that they were following different theories. He had Hathaway pursuing the idea that what they were looking for was someone recently released from prison, with a grudge against anyone seen as responsible for his incarceration. "His" being the likely word, but Lewis didn't discount the idea that the perpetrator could be a woman. He stared at one of the photographs pinned to the board. It showed the bloodstain found near Swanson's car. He tapped it, and glanced up at the Scottish inspector.

"Murder, d'you think?"

"Most likely. None of the victims has ever been seen or heard from."

"'_Murder_,' did you say? Then where are my bodies, boys? Are you holding out on me?"

They turned to the doorway as in strode Doctor Hobson. "I mean _one_ you might be able to hide, but you've lost, what, three so far?" She went over to Siobhan, handing her a spare house key. "In case you get stuck here half the night."

Rebus grunted. "_Five_, if you count the two Edinburgh cases, DI Foster and Richard Wright, the defense advocate."

Lewis narrowed his eyes at Laura, but he was looking beyond her, his mind squarely on the cases. "What's the best way to dispose of a body so it won't be easily found? Not burying, surely."

"Burning, I'd say."

"Chucking it in sea." Hathaway suggested.

"Dissolving it in acid." Siobhan joined the game.

"Cooking it and eating it." Rebus added. He blinked at their expressions. "What? It works in all the fairy tales."

Laura was shaking her head. "No, if you really want to get rid of it, you have to burn it. Best way to get rid of the bones. Acid would be second best." She smiled at Siobhan, who beamed like a star pupil.

"But wouldn't there be smoke? And the smell?" Lewis looked puzzled.

"Not necessarily, Sir. It's not that hard to recover the smoke and other exhaust fumes and hide the smell, killers have been able to do that for well over a hundred years." Hathaway heard himself slipping into "lecture" mode, but was powerless to stop. "For instance, there was a serial killer in Chicago in the States at around the turn of the century, Doctor H. H. Holmes, he called himself. Not his real name, of course. He built himself a three-story hotel that included many, erm, _special features_, such as suffocation rooms and a torture chamber. There were two giant furnaces in the cellar, with a system of exhaust recapture so the smell wouldn't be detected. He also had a vat of acid and a lime pit, although bone disposal was not a problem; he reconstructed the skeletons and sold them to medical schools." He flashed a smirk in recognition that he deserved the eye-rolling he was getting for being a know-it-all.

But Lewis was fascinated. "_Medical schools?_ Was he a real doctor?"

"Oh, yes, one of several serial killers who were also physicians: Michael Swango, John Bodkin Adams, Maxim Petrov, and of course, Harold Shipman, to name some of the best known."

The grim looks verified that they all remembered the Shipman Inquiry.

"Maybe we shouldn't be discussing this in front of—" Rebus jerked his head in Hobson's direction. She swatted at him.

Lewis looked a bit irritated at her playfulness. "So, burning, you'd need a pretty big oven."

"And hot," Laura added. "It needs to get to around a thousand degrees."

Lewis twisted his mouth. "Still, how are we supposed to find _that_? And anyway, we're only speculating that they've been killed." His resigned tone made it clear he'd had enough speculating for now. "Come on, Hathaway, nose to the grindstone."

Laura grabbed his arm before he got as far as his office. "Robbie? A word?"

His interest piqued, he followed her out into the corridor.

"Are you getting on better with Rebus? Better than last night, I mean."

"Who said we weren't getting on?" He saw her skeptical expression. "Yeah, well, I s'pose so. At least, _I'm_ trying to. I think we were both caught off guard yesterday. I hadn't been told they were coming, and _he_ hadn't been told that _I_ hadn't been told. You follow?"

"I think so . . . you're saying it's Innocent's fault?"

He almost laughed at that. "Yeah, why not?" Then a thought came to him as she was about to move off. "Laura? You busy Friday night?"

She reflected a moment. "No, just work and dinner at home."

"Would you like to go out for a bite? Nothing fancy, mind."

"Won't you be working?"

"Aye, probably, unless the brilliant Scotsman has tidied up all the loose ends by then. But I don't think Innocent would begrudge me a couple of hours with you on a Friday night."

She broke into a wide smile. "Yes, I'd like that."

"The Trout? Say, half seven?"

She thought a moment. "Better make it eight. And better meet me there, in case work makes me late."

"Don't worry, I'll wait for you." He waved as she turned and headed for the exit.

.

II

.

By afternoon, they were no closer to resolving anything. Lewis and Hathaway sat in their office, bouncing ideas around. Rebus and Clarke had been given an adjacent, unused office, with temporary access to the station's computer system.

Lewis was looking for links between the three missing detectives, Swanson, Stevenson, and Foster, and the criminal lawyer, Wright. The missing car park attendant was different enough, there being no Shakespearean note sent, so that they had decided not to focus on that case yet.

"Do you really think we'll find an ex-convict with ties to all four of these victims?"

Lewis blew out his breath. "No, not really, but nothing else makes any sense."

"Do you think it could all be coincidence, Sir?"

"I don't believe in coincidence, Sergeant. Not when bloody Shakespeare is involved."

"What about frustrated exam-takers, Sir? That could explain Swanson, at least." Hathaway paused, his brain almost whirring with energy. "What if Foster was an assessor, too? And some unsuccessful exam-taker had it in for both of them?"

"You mean someone who was failed four years ago by Foster and then was failed again here by Swanson?"

"Yeah, not very likely, I suppose." Hathaway conceded. "Right, that'd require someone trying to pass the exam year after year and failing each time." His voice reflected his decision that this was not a credible theory after all.

Lewis turned cold. "Maybe you weren't aware, Sergeant, but some people can take a very long time to advance through the ranks."

Hathaway realized he'd made a serious blunder, and dropped his eyes. "Sorry, erm . . . Sir. I didn't mean . . . Well, you passed on your first try, didn't you? With an Excellent, I've heard."

Lewis snorted. "Yeah, but only because I didn't have the balls to try it before I'd been Morse's sergeant for a decade or so. Anyway, where's the link to Edinburgh? The same sergeant, taking it there a few years ago and then here? Unlikely."

Hathaway looked glum. "They don't even have the OSPRE examination up there. So that can't be the connection, can it?"

"Ah, yeah, that's right." The inspector shook his head in frustration. "It'd be nice if that Scot would tell us what he was thinking."

They worked for a while longer, then Hathaway leaned back in his chair. Lewis knew that this was a signal James wanted to talk about the case, and he looked up inquiringly in response.

"I'm not finding any Edinburgh connection for Swanson or Stevenson, Sir. In fact, I can't find one for anyone at this station. Not at the relevant time, at least."

"Except for those two in the next office."

Hathaway pulled a face. "Fine, except for them. And _they_ don't have an _Oxford_ connection at the relevant time. Anyway, I've been thinking."

"Oh, no. Not again."

James chuckled at this. "Seriously, Sir. Suppose it _is_ an ex-convict, and Foster, Stevenson, and Swanson all got him put away for something, and he's avenging that." He checked; Lewis was with him so far. "Well, these disappearances were a couple of years apart. Wouldn't murder would be a bit extreme for what must be petty sentences, if he gets out every couple years so he can do it again?"

Lewis frowned. "We don't know that it _is_ murder. And anyway, not everyone thinks a year or two in the nick is petty. What about the timing with that barrister, what's his name, Wright? Any chance he failed to get a client acquitted who fits the timeline?" Lewis thought some more. "And speaking of a timeline, Hathaway, how about you make us one?"

Hathaway blew out his cheeks. Of _course_ his idea would end up in more work for him. And he was already having trouble buying into Lewis's theory. But as his boss said, nothing else they could think of for now made any sense.

Lewis was staring at the wall. He felt as though the investigation was jammed up against it, truth be told. Nothing, _nothing_ was making any sense.

"What about the car park attendant, Kimble? Where does he fit? _Does_ he fit at all?"

"Well the obvious answer is that the killer, or kidnapper, if you prefer, also made Kimble disappear because he saw too much. Or the perpetrator _thought _Kimble saw too much. It turns out the CCTV wasn't even working."

"And there's no note. But this would have been killing for necessity, not revenge, so maybe he doesn't merit a note."

Hathaway reiterated Lewis's earlier caveat: "We don't know that it _was_ a killing. And we're assuming it's all the work of the same guy."

Lewis scanned him. "_You're_ assuming it's a guy. Could have been a woman. What about a common girlfriend, avenging each of three criminal lovers who were put away, one by Foster, one by Stevenson, one by Swanson. Or maybe she was the girlfriend of all three coppers. And the lawyer. Picked them off one at a time."

"Mmm, busy girl." Lewis raised his eyebrows at his sergeant's double meaning.

"And anyway, how am I supposed to find that out?"

"Lots of sweat and shoe leather, Sergeant. And don't expect any help from Sergeant Clarke or that Scot."

"He has a name, Sir."

Lewis just grunted.

.

III

.

Sergeant Clarke was poring over personnel files for the recent exam-takers. Rebus sat and watched her work until she felt his eyes on her and looked up.

"Sir?"

"How's it going? How many lack alibis for the period between the time stamped on the car park ticket Monday evening and Tuesday morning, when Swanson was confirmed missing?"

"Well, it probably won't surprise you that virtually every examinee contacted claimed to be cramming the night before. The married ones at least have spouses who will vouch for them; the singles are split about fifty-fifty, those who were revising in a public place and probably can account for their whereabouts and those cracking the books at home. There must be dozens unaccounted for."

Rebus considered this information. "Why don't you focus on the examinees from Oxford? Although you might also check and see if any of the others—the ones who lacked alibis—had some sort of Oxford connection." He checked his watch. "Right, I'm off to find something to eat. Want me to bring you back a curry or anything?"

"That'd be nice, that way I can work straight through lunch."

It took him until he was halfway out the door to catch the sarcasm.

"And Sir?"

He stopped and turned.

"I'd avoid last night's pub, if I were you."

By the time a couple of hours had passed, she'd determined that Hathaway, Fordham, and Hargrove had no alibis. The Twins—Greaves and Lipton—p only alibied each other, so that was as good as nothing helping them. Fordham and Hargrove were repeat exam-takers, the others were first-timers. Another ten alibi-less sergeants from outside the Oxford area had some sort of connection to the city, ranging from having gone to university there to having lived in the city as a child. Six of the ten were repeaters. She reported her progress to Rebus when he checked into the office, smelling of beer and breath mints, and bearing a bag of take-away.

He studied her list, written up on a lined pad. "Don't limit yourself to Fordham and Hargrove, check out all five from here that don't have alibis." This approach, treating fellow police officers as suspects, was for their eyes only, and he had forbidden her from using the computer for her notes. "Any of these visit Edinburgh four or five years ago?"

Clarke scowled. "If they went as civilians, I probably can't find it."

"Find it anyway."

She exhaled, exasperated. "And what exactly are _you_ doing to help?"

Rebus glanced up, a warning in his eyes. She looked at the floor. "Sorry, Sir."

"I'm _thinking_, Sergeant. It's what I do best."

She narrowed her gaze at him, but he appeared oblivious. At last she turned her attention back to the computerized personnel files. _Hathaway, James_. She clicked on "Full Report." She probably didn't need that for the investigation, but she was curious. And maybe it would help her get to be his "lady friend" as she'd been ordered to do. She found very interesting reading there.

When she finished going through Hathaway's personnel file, Siobhan felt guilty but justified. She had learned more about him than she would likely learn in a month of conversation. She had also found she had access to the personnel file of DI Robert Lewis. But because he was not a recent examinee, he was not a suspect under Rebus's theory, and she didn't feel she had the right to look at it. Or the time, for that matter.

She turned to Fordham's records, scanning and clicking, checking him out almost as thoroughly as she had checked Hathaway's file. Then she went through Hargrove's records, followed by Greaves, and finally, Lipton. A lot of information, none of it pointing anywhere. She was staring blankly at the screen when a hand dropped in front of her eyes. Starting, she turned sharply. Her inspector.

"Finding anything, Sergeant?"

She shook her head. "Nothing that means anything yet. The closest any of them get to Edinburgh is Fordham; he transferred here from Newcastle a few years back."

Rebus rolled his eyes. "Another bloody Geordie. And it looks like I'm stuck with that Geordie inspector another night, too. Jean hasn't found us any lodgings yet."

Siobhan smiled. "I _like_ Laura, I'm happy to stay with her another night."

"Well, that's verra nice for you, Siobhan, I wish I could say the same. I feel like I'm staying at my parents' house or something, the way that man looks at me, all disapproving. I swear if we don't get this case put to bed soon, I'll be killing that Geordie myself."

"He has a name, Sir."

Rebus just grunted.


	5. Chapter 5

.

I

.

The Chief Super looked up in response to the quiet knock on her office door. "Yes?"

The door opened, and her sergeant stuck her head in. She was blushing slightly, visibly flustered. "Ma'am? DI Rebus to see you."

"Ah. Has he been chatting you up, Mary? He's charming, isn't he?"

Mary's color deepened. "Charming? He's a real flirt, if you ask me." But she was laughing. _She enjoyed his attention_, Jean could tell.

"All right, send him in."

Mary stepped away from the door, and a moment later, Rebus entered, glancing back at Mary and winking. Innocent could hear her normally rather sedate sergeant giggling.

_Giggling, for heaven's sake_.

"Yes, John, what do you want?" Innocent was used to being the first person to speak when a lower-ranking officer was in her office.

"Jean." He beamed broadly. But he was checked by her cocked eyebrows and rather stern expression.

"It's personal. Can't I call you 'Jean' when I'm off the clock?"

She conceded a small smile. "Personal?"

"I'm famished, and I've heard the Randolph has a bonny roast lamb. Can you give me a tour?"

She cocked her head. "Are you asking me out to dinner?" The generous offer was unusual for the Scotsman, she knew.

"My treat. That is—" he glanced at the band on her left hand "—if _Mister_ Innocent can spare you for an evening?"

.

II

.

Hathaway knocked on the door as he just barely entered the office. Siobhan looked up from what she was doing, clicking the screen at the same time to hide it.

"Oh, James. Hi." Her smile made her fairly glow.

He checked to ensure they were alone and shifted a bit awkwardly. "Erm, I was wondering if Inspector Rebus would let you call it quits for the night? Only, there's a little Italian place that doesn't show up in the guidebooks, I thought maybe we could take a bit of a break from this? Have dinner, take a walk around the City?" The detective in him was scanning the office for indications about their personalities. And there were plenty. Siobhan's desk was extremely neat, with what might pass for mess—case files—stacked in neat, organized rows. The other desk was piled not only with work-related papers but torn crisp packets, empty cans of Irn-Bru, and discarded carrier bags.

Her eyes lit up. "That'd be fantastic! I think Rebus has already called it quits himself, said he was going to take your guv out to dinner."

"He's taking _Lewis_ out?"

"No, no, no, your Chief Super. He went to ask her about a half hour ago, so since he hasn't come back, I assume she didn't send him off with his tail between his legs."

"Ah, that makes more sense." And it gave him something to think about. "Well, great, give me five minutes and I'll come get you." He left the office with a smile.

Lewis raised his eyes as his sergeant entered their office. "Ready for a pint?"

Hathaway stared for no more than a second. Well, maybe two. "Ah, no, sorry, Sir. I'm, erm, having dinner with Siobhan. Per your orders . . . Sir."

Lewis tempered his disappointment. He did want Hathaway to gain the trust of Sergeant Clarke. But he'd already learned that Laura Hobson was not available (something about students, she'd said) and that Rebus had other plans (to which he was not privy). He was feeling sorry for himself, he realized. Being alone rarely bothered him, but when it did, there was no remedy. He was alone, simple as that. _Painful_ as that, sometimes.

"Fine." He saw Hathaway's expression. "No, I mean it. Get to know her, that's what's important. At least I won't have to tiptoe around that Scot tonight; seems he has other plans for the evening."

"Yeah, I understand he's taking Innocent out for a lovely dinner." That got him a nice reaction: a stunned stare.

"He _never_!"

Hathaway simply flashed a smug smile, gathered his things, and went out, while Lewis could only shake his head.

.

III

.

Hathaway made his best effort at complying with his boss's orders. He took Siobhan to his favorite little Italian restaurant, just a short walk from the station. She seemed to be enjoying not only the food and wine, but being with _him_. And, he realized with surprise, he was enjoying being with her. Not that she was his ideal; no, she was too detail-obsessed and had an almost non-existent sense of humor. But the easy compatibility he had not expected. They talked about everything except work: what kinds of food they liked, how well they each could cook, what sorts of books they read, what websites they frequented, and what styles of music they preferred. Siobhan was surprised to learn that James played guitar in a band, though of course something like that wouldn't have been noted in his personnel file.

He lit up a cigarette as soon as they emerged from the restaurant. James appreciated the fact that Siobhan didn't say anything, didn't even look disapprovingly at him. Of course, she was used to Rebus smoking and she certainly would have known by now that Hathaway shared that habit. She caught up his arm with both hands, threading hers through at his elbow with a quick smile up at him. Hathaway smiled to himself. Maybe she was already trusting him to the point where he might learn something about the investigation.

Siobhan was smiling inwardly as well. Although she was beginning to feel certain that they could take James off the list of suspects, she still had her guard up. She would seduce him—which, the way things were going, appeared to be less of a challenge than she had first imagined when Rebus had proposed it—and when James was relaxed and unsuspecting, she would work the conversation around to the case.

Her thoughts were jerked to a stop, however, when the arm to which she was clinging suddenly stopped moving forward. Hathaway had come to a standstill outside a shop window, and he was staring intently through the glass. According to the sign, this was "On the Isis: Gallery of Local Art and Beauty." In the front window were arranged about a dozen works of art: paintings on easels, stained glass works hanging from hooks, metal sculptures and pottery vessels on pedestals.

"What is it, James?"

His eyes narrowed, focusing on one clay jug in particular. "That piece, that pale one there." She looked where he was pointing and although the shop was dark, the street lights were bright enough that she could see there was a dark, five-membered imprint on its pebbled surface, like the handprint of a ghost. It sparkled provocatively.

"What an interesting effect. I rather like it, but I don't think I would want it in my house. For some reason, it seems a bit creepy."

Hathaway said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward the small sign that gave the shop's hours. He exhaled pensively, then turned to Siobhan, studying her eyes for a while before a bit of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Would you, erm . . . like to go to mine for a nightcap? Cognac, espresso, something like that?"

Her eyes twinkled. "_'Something like that'_? That's rather indefinite."

"I'm open to suggestion, is all."

"Oh, are you?" She put plenty of suggestion in those three words. "Good." She placed her arm around his waist, resting her hand on his hip and hooking her thumb in his beltloop. "Then I suggest we go to yours for a bit of 'something like that.'"

.

IV

.

Hathaway leaned back against the pillows, smoking. The sex had been good. He'd put her pleasure ahead of his, and she repaid him by introducing him to some sensations he'd never experienced before. He breathed a long sigh and stubbed out his cigarette. His arm was crooked around Siobhan, who snuggled happily into him, her head on his chest, her hand on his belly where she traced the outline of his navel with one finger. He felt sated, utterly relaxed. He'd intended to ask some pointed questions tonight, but he wanted to savor this moment. Times like this were rare for him, times when the buzz of his brain were silenced by the happy hum of his heart.

He couldn't stand it any more and suppressed a giggle. "That really tickles."

She smiled up at him. And gazed past. "What are you thinking about right now?"

He blew out his cheeks. _I've been wondering how to get answers out of you_ did not seem to be the best reply.

"Art." In response to her open-mouthed surprise, he continued. "Local art and beauty, specifically. That jug in the window. The glaze on it. I've been told that technique is extremely unusual. But here it is, right in a High Street shop window."

She furrowed her brow. "Is that significant?"

He snorted. "How about I find out tomorrow? Right now, I have enough art and beauty right here in my arms."

She beamed and snuggled closer, deciding to ask him nothing about work. Bringing up the case now would ruin the contentment of the moment. A better strategy would be to let this night bring them together, then question him tomorrow if she could catch him with his guard down.

They would still be in that position when the alarm clock buzzed in the morning.

.

V

.

Rebus paid the bill, and Jean drove them to her house without explanation.

After parking the car, she looked him squarely in the eye. "Don't get any ideas, John. I want a candid update on the investigation, nothing more."

John escorted her inside and, when she excused herself for a moment, helped himself to an open bottle of wine he found in the fridge. He filled a couple of glasses halfway, and then lit some of the many candles that lined the shelves in the sitting room. Jean gave him a reproachful look when she found what he'd been up to, but he could tell there was amusement lurking behind it. She sat down on a sofa, and Rebus sat as close to her as he dared. They sipped wine for a minute in silence.

Jean Innocent studied the man sitting next to her in the candlelit room. He hadn't aged especially well, but not too badly either, considering. She could make out several unfamiliar scars on his rather craggy face. And he still had that killer smile when he looked at her.

"So, John, has it been a total waste of time and money to bring you down to Oxford?"

His smile broadened. "Waste of money? You're not even paying for our lodging. Can't be costing you that much so far."

"Are you getting _anywhere_?" She tried to sound impatient.

"Oh, aye, when that Geordie and his posh sergeant aren't getting in our way."

She cocked her head scoldingly. "That Geordie happens to be my best inspector, and a lovely person as well. And his posh sergeant is one of the more brilliant thinkers in the entire station. Don't tell me you're having trouble getting along with them."

Rebus smiled as though he'd been caught out. "Nae, lass. I'm just jealous that they get to work with you every day."

"John!" She didn't sound as shocked as she meant to.

"I mean it, Jean. I know this sounds like John Rebus trying it on, but I miss your lovely eyes. I miss the way you used to rub my shoulder blades when weâ€"" He dropped his eyes, licking his lips. "I'm sorry, Jean. I know you're married now. I have no right."

He flicked his eyes up at her: dark, liquid eyes. Soulful eyes. It was two beats at least before she could look away. "I miss the time we had together, John."

"Me too." He brushed his fingers over her arm. She inhaled and held her breath. Her entire body was trembling. She felt desirable. She hadn't felt that way in a long time. Softening. Melting. She longed to be treated gently, and she remembered how good he could make her feel. Being with him now made it seem as though all her responsibilities had disappeared, and she was the happy, eager constable she had been before years of worry and frustration had hardened her.

He kept his fingers moving: over her arm, then up to her neck, then under her earlobe. So tender. He knew all the places she was sensitive. He whispered her name and she turned to him. He glanced at her lips and his hand slid down to her breast. His stare was intense.

"I'll stop if you ask me to."

She didn't.

.

VI

.

Laura glanced at the display of her mobile before answering.

"Robbie, hi again, what's up?" She'd called earlier in the evening when she had let her students take a break, and was glad she'd done that. He had sounded lonely when he first answered, but by the time she had to ring off, he'd perked up.

"Actually, I'm wondering if Siobhan's there."

"Not back yet from her dinner with James."

A snort. "Don't be too surprised if she spends the night at his."

"James? An overnighter on the first date? That's not like him, is it?"

"I really wouldn't know. But he's under orders."

A moment of silence. She continued in a more chilly voice. "Robbie, what are you up to?"

"I'm not 'up to' anything, Laura." But she heard the defensiveness in his voice. "Our visitors are holding something back on us and I mean to find out what they know." He could hear her huff a little.

"So, you rang to ask Siobhan directly? That's very mature of you to put a stop to the games between you and Rebus."

It was his turn to huff. "I rang to see if she knows where John is, there's no sign of him."

"Ah." Laura recognized that tone of impatience. "I thought you said he was taking Jean Innocent out to dinner."

"Aye, but it's gone midnight!"

"They're two consenting adults, Robbie. I hope you're not planning to interfere."

"Two consenting—"?" Then he got her point. "She _wouldn't!_" Incredulous. Yet he had no reason to be so certain she wouldn't spend the night with Rebus.

He realized Laura was speaking. ". . .don't know that, Robbie. Siobhan said Jean's an old flame of John's, and she fully expects her boss to bed your boss at some point while they're here. I wouldn't wait up for him if I were you." She heard him release a long sigh, as though he was deflating. Then a derisive snort.

"Y'know, Laura, I think you and I must be the only two people in Oxford _not_ getting any sex tonight."

Laura smiled, and suppressed the obvious retort.


	6. Chapter 6

.

I

.

Lewis arrived early the next morning, not having to fix anyone else breakfast or try to make yesterday's clothes look presentable. And so he was waiting when Innocent arrived—with Rebus, he noticed. He gave her five minutes before he asked Mary to let her know he'd like a word.

Innocent was focused on the paperwork on her desk, scanning reports and signing them, when she glanced cursorily at Lewis.

"Yes, Lewis?"

He had left the door open and he heard Mary moving around in the outer office. It was easy to picture her trying to listen in. He decided now was not the best time to get stroppy about Jean's personal life.

"Ma'am, I don't mean to be a nuisance, but Inspector Rebus . . . I can't escape the feeling he isn't telling me everything."

Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. Of course, Lewis would have put two and two together when Rebus didn't show up at his flat last night_. My personal life is none of his business_. "Is there something specific you wish to ask me?" Her tone was cold. Very cold.

Lewis backpedaled. Rebus was her special investigator, brought to Oxford for reasons he didn't understand, but nonetheless with her personal sanction. _He's probably _supposed _to be not telling me stuff_.

"No, Ma'am. Just that . . . I feel as though I'm working under a handicap here. I'd prefer to know exactly what is going on."

She breathed in relief. This was work-related. Lewis was not going to press the matter, of course not. "Alright, Robbie, your concerns are noted. I'll speak to John and tell him to be sure you're notified of everything possible."

Not entirely satisfied, Lewis had no choice but to acknowledge the meeting was over.

He went to the incident room, where Rebus was staring at the posted photographs. Lewis inhaled, checked to ensure he was being objective, and dove in.

"Y'know, I'd appreciate a heads-up if you're going to be shacking up somewhere else for the night."

Rebus snorted. "'Shacking up'? Is that what you think I was doing, _Dad_?"

Lewis rolled his eyes and continued to focus elsewhere. "Shacking up, dossing down—I don't care _where_ you're doin' it, _or with whom_, only I'd like to know if I should expect a knock-up in the wee hours of the morning. Ye ken?"

Rebus grinned at the attempted Scots dialect. "I was surprised by it meself. Didn't think Jean still carried a torch for me. So, I couldn't have rung you ahead of time. Sorry." He didn't look it.

The eyes of both inspectors snapped up when two people came into the room, heading for the adjacent offices. Neither Siobhan nor James made eye contact with their respective inspectors, and they disappeared quickly, without a word.

Rebus glanced at Lewis, Lewis glanced at Rebus, and they both broke out in crooked grins. "Both of our sergeants are late this morning," Rebus said to Lewis, far more loudly than necessary. "I wonder why." The two inspectors headed for their offices, trying not to smirk.

Lewis said nothing, however, as he sat in his desk chair. He only cocked his head at Hathaway, inviting him to speak if he was so inclined. He was.

"I think Siobhan trusts me pretty well now. My plan is to press for further information tonight." He refused to look Lewis in the eye, and concentrated on firing up his computer for the day.

Lewis was—well, _dying to know_ wasn't exactly accurate, but something pretty close—_extremely curious_ whether James and Siobhan had slept together, but he wasn't going to ask outright. He wouldn't want Hathaway to ask such questions of him, in case there was ever anything similar he himself wanted to keep quiet. Not that that was likely to happen any time soon.

"How was your night with 'that Scot'?"

The question caught Lewis a bit off-guard, but he covered by pretending the coffee was too hot.

"Fine." He swallowed. "Yeah, fine, we stayed out of each other's hair."

But in the next office, more disclosure was taking place.

"How are things with the Oxbridge lad, Sergeant? Am I wrong in concluding you spent the night with him?"

She smiled and focused on her computer screen. "He's really nice. Eccentric. Intellectual, but not stuffy." Her eyes met his directly, because she knew he was going to confront her on this anyway. "Yes, I had sex with him. And yes, I like him. But no, I didn't ask him if he made a lot of detectives disappear."

"But you will?"

She gave her boss a look. "I think it's a non-starter, to be honest, Sir. There's no motive."

"But he knows his Shakespeare, don't forget. And we don't have a motive for anyone else, either. So until I say he's clear, keep working on him, Sergeant."

"Sir." But she was shaking her head.

In the other office, the two detectives were trying a new approach.

"Let's look into that defense attorney, Richard Wright. What's the angle on that? Did he disappear before or after Foster?"

Hathaway checked his notes. "Three weeks before."

"And what about the quotes? From the same play or anything?"

Hathaway reviewed the quotations mentally and shook his head. "No, none of them. All Shakespeare, all about revenge or enemies, that sort of thing. Are these all acts of revenge?"

"Revenge for what, though?"

Hathaway couldn't answer.

"Okay, well, what about Wright's record? Find out who he's failed to get acquitted and who finished serving his sentence, I dunno, maybe up to six months before the disappearance?"

In response to Hathaway's frustrated expression, he added, "His or _her_ sentence, better make that."

Hathaway assigned some of the constables to share the work. Wright's caseload had been huge, and James realized he had to figure out a way to make the computer cross-check it with release dates within the relevant time window. It would be an impossible job done by hand. He sighed. He'd be at this awhile.

A tap on the arm made him jump. He turned to find Siobhan, smiling and holding out a bag that smelled like . . .

"Thai?" She grinned. He'd told her last night how much he liked pad kee mao. He was amazed to find he was ravenous.

"What time is it?" He answered his own question, glancing at the clock on his computer: nearly three o'clock already.

"Sir?" A DC had stuck her head around the corner. Hathaway took the bag, thanked Siobhan graciously, and flicked his eyes toward the door. She made a comical sad face and he conceded a smile. "Go ahead, Madge, what is it?"

"This Wright bloke worked out of Newcastle as well as Edinburgh. Do you want me to check his caseload there, too? 'Cos if you want to expand beyond Edinburgh, we should probably broaden our search of released prisoners to English prisons, in addition to Scottish."

Hathaway groaned. The focus was getting wider, instead of narrower.

Madge continued. "Maybe we should, anyway. What we're finding so far is that DI Foster wasn't the collaring copper on any of Wright's cases that fit the time constraints."

"Yeah, better get started on that. Check with Gurdip and see if he can tweak the system to speed it up for you somehow." He pulled a face at Siobhan. "How about a walk as soon as I eat this? I need to clear my head."

"Sure. I'll come back in ten minutes."

She wandered back into the office where Rebus was going through a file.

"Did he confess yet?" He didn't look up when he spoke.

"You're hilarious."

"Maybe he'll blurt it out in the heat of passion tonight." Now he cocked his head and winked at her. "Unless you two have had a falling out?"

She turned to her desk, and muttered as though to herself. "_Hilarious_."

"You might as well stay at his again tonight, Jean's in no rush to sort us out any five-star accommodations." He waited to see if she would comment on his own sleeping arrangements. When she didn't, he probed further. "I'm nae too fond of dossing at that Geordie's. Maybe if you're staying at Hathaway's, I could take over your spot at the doctor's."

That got a reaction. "You try that, and 'that Geordie' will send you packing so fast you'll be in Scotland before you realize you're on the train. Won't matter what his guv'nor thinks." She realized James was standing in the doorway waiting for her, and she started gathering her things.

Rebus snorted. "Or maybe I should just shack up with Jean."

Clarke only rolled her eyes. "I expect you will before we leave this fair city." Hathaway frowned at Rebus's comment, but said nothing.

"We're taking a walk to discuss the case, alright?" Siobhan wasn't exactly asking permission, and she didn't wait for an answer.

Rebus watched them go. So, the Geordie was keeping quiet about Rebus's night out. Good of him. But probably he was doing so only out of respect for Jean. And despite what he'd said to Siobhan, Rebus had gotten the feeling that he would not be welcome at the Innocent house tonight. Jean had definitely been avoiding him since their arrival together that morning, and had been giving him the cold shoulder whenever he tried to speak with her, refusing to call him by his first name and frowning a lot. Had to be guilt about her marriage; he was certain she'd gotten as much pleasure last night as she'd given.

.

II

.

So now there was a Newcastle connection, Wright taking cases both there and in Edinburgh. Lewis sighed to himself and leaned back in his chair. Fordham had been at Newcastle with him; they had been PCs together at the start. Then Lewis had been tapped to become a detective and he eagerly stepped into that role. Val had been delighted when he told her the news, a DC was in less daily danger than the street patrol he'd been on and the pay packet was a little bigger. Which was good, because suddenly he had to buy himself several new suits.

But not everyone had been happy with his move. Fordham had been furious, he'd wanted it himself. He considered himself intellectually superior to Lewis, having gone to a rather posh school, and he refused to believe Lewis had more talent at something that required a brain.

Lewis got up and hurried into the incident room. He scanned the notes and scrawlings, pulled some of the files and went through the reports. Then he went back in the office and checked through some of the reports on Hathaway's desk. At last he found what he was looking for: the list of OSPRE examinees who were repeat takers, and the times and places they'd taken it before and failed. But the examination wasn't the only context for their perpetrator. There was that defense attorney from Edinburgh. Where did he fit in? Hathaway hadn't been able to find a connection there at all.

Lewis rubbed his eyes. The parts that made sense if he viewed them one way only made the other parts not fit at all. He blew out his cheeks, realizing that the productive part of his brain was shot. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"Robbie?"

He sat up, eyes open. John stood in the doorway. "Ready to give up for the day?"

Lewis most definitely was.

.

III

.

Hathaway directed their steps to the art gallery they'd stopped at the night before. It was open, as he expected, and the jug with the ghostly handprint was still in the window. A bell rang as he opened the door to let Siobhan through first.

"Good afternoon." The shopkeeper was a rather tall man with silver hair that did not cover the top of his head, which was shiny and pink. Hathaway decided to make his inquiries official, despite not knowing if there was any connection to be found. He flipped open his warrant card.

"I'd like some information about one of the pieces in your window." He pointed out the one he was referring to, and the man reached in and took it out, handing it to James carefully.

"It's by a local artist, erm . . ." He gestured for James to turn it so he could see the mark. "Well, FT. Or TF. That's all I know." James was puzzled.

"Don't you know the artists you're selling?"

"Oh, I've never talked to this one myself, you see. All the pieces like this here I acquired from another gallery that, unfortunately, fell on hard times last autumn and had to sell off its stock. Maybe you remember Oxford Local Artisans?" He smiled a little smugly at the loss of a competitor. "Well, when I say 'hard times,' what I mean is, 'failed to pay Inland Revenue its due.'"

"Do you know how the artist gets this effect? It's not the glaze, is it?"

"No, it's the way the firing is done, I'd say, placing something against the pot so that this black part is heated differently, deprived of oxygen. But that's a guess."

"You have more of this work?"

The shopkeeper nodded. "I acquired, oh, a couple dozen pieces. I'm afraid they didn't sell very well; the owner of Oxford Local told me he'd had them over a year. I've only sold one or two of the lot."

Hathaway couldn't hide his eagerness. "May we see them, please?"

The man led the way to a door in the back of the shop. Behind it, narrow stairs descended into the cellar. He switched on a light. "I'll just point you to where they are and you take your time. I need to stay up here and keep an eye on things, though."

In a corner of the cellar were stacked a variety of pieces, all similar in color, though not all bore the same patch of black with metallic red.

Siobhan picked one up and moved it to see the vase behind. "James, look." Her voice was flat. The vase she held had what looked like part of an eerie footprint, like the toes and ball of a human foot. He stared at it.

"Let's get them all out, all the ones with black on them."

They fell to the task, Siobhan pulling piece after piece off the shelf and James rearranging them in stacks on the floor. When he was done, they stood back and caught their breath. They were looking at a shadow of a human. If the shopkeeper's theory about the glaze was correct, when the pots were stacked as they would have been for firing, the black patches showed where a human form had been placed against them, keeping that part of each pot's surface deprived of oxygen during the firing process, and creating the beautiful yet ghostly effect of black with metallic red flecks.

Siobhan let out her breath. "It's Stevenson, isn't it? What's left of him after he disappeared two years ago."

Hathaway took a photograph with his mobile, and they went back upstairs quickly. "We've moved some of the pots down there. Please don't touch them, they're evidence in a murder inquiry."

The shopkeeper stared after them as they hurried out the door.

Lewis and Rebus had gone by the time they returned to the station. Hathaway made notes about the pottery on the board in the incident room, printed and posted the photograph he took of the pots, and wrote "MURDERED?" in big letters next to the photograph of DS Stevenson. Then he saw a new note in Madge's blocky writing next to the photo of Richard Wright:

"_Successfully defended Harold Tristam—Newcastle murder case_."

He pulled her report on the matter and scanned it quickly. Siobhan waited, curious.

"The case was dismissed on a technicality, the Newcastle police improperly seized evidence. Once that was ruled inadmissible, there wasn't enough to convict him." He gave her a puzzled look. "We were looking for guys that _didn't_ get off, thinking this was some sort of revenge scheme. Tristam would have been grateful, he wouldn't have gone and killed the barrister who got him off the hook."

"Could be he's a nutter."

Hathaway twisted his mouth, considering. "I don't think so, remember the tone of vengeance in the notes?" He blew out his breath. "How about we noodle this out over a couple cold ones at my flat?"


	7. Chapter 7

.

I

.

This time they stopped at Laura's so Siobhan could get some clean clothes. James noticed Laura watching them carefully. _She knows this is an act_, he realized. But the funny thing was, it didn't _feel_ much like an act.

When they got to his place, he pulled out a couple of beers and they sat next to each other on the sofa. Hathaway took a long swallow from his beer and set it down. He had brought a copy of Madge's report to read more thoroughly. She had attached records from the Tristam case, and Siobhan read through some of the material, too. There was plenty for them both to work on.

Hathaway's eye caught something in a newspaper clipping about the arrest. The murder had been a big story and the reporter expressed his gratitude to the police for having apprehended the killer.

"Listen to this: Tristam was arrested by two members of Newcastle's finest: Detective Constable Joseph Barnes and Detective Sergeant Thomas Fordham. _Fordham!_"

He shook his head. "I hate to say it, but it's been starting to look to me like this was inside work. Can we connect Fordham to the other victims?"

"Well, he failed his Inspector's last year when Swanson was an assessor, and he failed it a couple of times in Newcastle. DI Foster sometimes was an assessor for the exam, he'd drive down to England for that, but I don't know what cities he went to. And I haven't gotten the list yet of who the Newcastle assessors were for the exams Fordham took, there's just been too much to do. But it could have been him, the timing would be right."

"And you never told us Foster was also an assessor? Might have been nice to know. We could have given you a hand with all that work." He firmed his mouth into a line. _It's not her fault_. "So where does Stevenson fit in?"

She shook her head. "I've drawn a blank on that." Then she squared her jaw, inhaled deeply, and turned to Hathaway.

"There's something I'm not supposed to tell you. But it's not right, you guys and us not working together. But, see, you were a suspect, James. Rebus has been convinced ever since Foster that it was another police officer behind the disappearances. That's partly why we came down; it wasn't only his knowledge of the Edinburgh cases, it was so that someone independent of the station was on the case." She swallowed and smiled faintly at him. "Sorry."

"Ah. So why are you telling me now?"

Her smile broadened. "Rebus wanted me to get close to you, sound out your credibility and see if I thought maybe it was you. Or if you were directing the inquiry away from someone else. We were checking into all the examinees."

"He wanted you to sleep with me?"

"Well, I wasn't ordered to, but it was part of the job, yeah. Only, it turns out I really do like you. Maybe not enough to sleep with you, but you're a great guy." She looked hopeful that she hadn't completely offended him.

He snorted. "In that case, there's something I need to set straight with you, too. Inspector Lewis ordered me to get friendly with you, to gain your trust. That's why I took you to dinner last night and brought you here and all." He studied her eyes. So far, she seemed to be taking this news in stride.

"But after last night and today, I like you, too. I don't want to hurt you at all. So how about we spend the evening together, disobeying orders. Let's see if we can get a handle on this case if we pool our knowledge, and I'd be happy if you stayed the night. This time, you can have the bed and I'll sleep on the sofa." He hesitated. "Though I'll understand if you instead want me to take you back to Laura's right now.

Her smile stretched across her face. "I'd like to stay, definitely. And can you believe those two? Trying to use us against each other. Well, Rebus, that doesn't surprise me. But your guv'nor seems like such a sweet guy. I think Laura's completely in love with him."

James laughed out loud. "We all think that, except for Lewis. He's not sure. Or maybe it's himself he's not sure about. Drives everyone crazy."

Siobhan took another swig of beer and got down to business. "Okay, so Fordham could have done Wright, angry about getting a dismissal of a murderer in the case that had made him a hero. Then he does Foster—" She looked confused. "Or did Foster come first? How much time between them?"

"Wright was first, then Foster three weeks later."

"Okay, so he fails his Inspector's and offs Foster."

Hathaway interjected. "And fires a batch of clayware to get rid of the bodies. The Chief Super has one."

Clarke stared. "Is that why you noticed it last night?" He nodded.

She continued the narrative. "He gets transferred down here, bides his time, and then does Stevenson but we don't know why. Personal matter?"

"Sounds like tomorrow we have some interviewing to do." James was buzzing: _Progress!_

"Yeah." She frowned, not certain they had more than a theory at this point. "I wonder if we should ring the boss."

"Yours or mine?"

"Either."

Hathaway considered. "It'll keep another five hours, won't it?"

"You're right. I'll catch hell if I wake him and it's not an emergency. Or worse, he might not even be asleep. He's hot to get into Innocent's knickers."

This got a chuckle from James. "I wish him luck with that."

Siobhan looked at him sideways. "He's usually good at it, so don't be surprised if he succeeds." Then she took up her earlier train of thought. "So after he failed the exam last year, why did he wait so long before taking care of Swanson?"

"Well, maybe when he found out Swanson was on again this year, he thought he better take him off the list."

This puzzled her. "List?"

"Yeah, we got a list on Friday of all the assessors so that we could report any potential conflicts of interest. You know, like if one of them was your boss."

Awareness dawned in her eyes. "He would have known all weekend. Wow. I didn't know about that."

"And then when he thought the car park attendant had seen, he got him too, only, no note because it wasn't done for that reason." He stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I wonder how much sooner we would have gotten to this point if our inspectors weren't so hostile to each other."

She only twisted an ironic smile, and James yawned again.

"_Sorry!_ I think I better get some sleep. Sounds like tomorrow could be a big day."

He walked her as far as the bedroom door. "There's towels on the shelf in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything else." Then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Siobhan."

He was smiling as he settled down on the sofa.

.

II

.

Out in Lewis's back garden, Rebus was leaning against the wall, talking on his mobile while he worked on a cigarette. "C'mon, Jean, I won't touch you. Really. I'd just like to be with you again, you remind me of happier days."

"Absolutely not, John. Last night was a mistake, a very bad mistake. In fact, it might be accurate to call our relationship in Edinburgh a mistake, as well. You have no sense of monogamy whatsoever. If you get over here, you'll turn on that charm of yours and do everything in your power to have your way with me. I won't let that happen, not after last night. Now please don't phone me like this again. And please don't call me 'Jean' at the station, either."

He pouted. "Maybe I should just go home."

"Not until you make some progress! Now, good night." She rang off.

Rebus finished his cigarette and pitched the end away. He was not in the mood to be stuck in Lewis's flat all night, that was for certain. He went back inside and helped himself to the bottle of The Macallan he'd found earlier in the cabinet where Lewis kept his spirits. Lewis had said he could help himself. A generous measure in a tumbler, with a splash of water. So smooth going down. So warm. He refilled the empty glass_. Bloody Jean Innocent!_

The phone rang, and Lewis came from his bedroom to pick it up. His eyes narrowed at the whisky bottle on the counter before he glanced at the caller ID. _Laura Hobson_.

"Hi."

"Robbie, I wanted to talk to you about James and Siobhan. They stopped here earlier to get some of her clothes, she's going to spend another night with him."

"Good." He kept his eye on Rebus, not wanting to give away too much about who had rung and watching to see how much single malt he was pouring into his glass.

"It's been bothering me a lot. It's not right, your pushing them together. They're both nice people and James wouldn't be acting like this if you hadn't forced him to come on to her so strongly."

"I explained to you why I did that."

"It's not a good enough reason to warrant meddling in affairs of the heart."

He found himself getting irritated. Rebus was putting the stuff away as though it didn't cost forty pounds a crack. And he could take out his irritation only one way.

"I'm not bloody meddling! He has his own will, his own moral standards. Is that why you called? To give me a bollocking for something that's none of your business?"

Rebus looked interested in the conversation.

"Robbie, I just think it's gone far enough."

Lewis exhaled. "Look, I don't want to talk about this in front of the kids, alright? You want to rake me over the coals, do it some other time."

He almost slammed the phone down. Glaring at Rebus:

"What did I say that's any of _your_ bloody business?" He noticed the bottle was empty, and his face turned red. "Y'drank all me Macallan, ya selfish bastard! You're one brilliant guest, y'know?" His chest heaved with anger.

Rebus slammed the glass on the counter. "You just bloody assume I wouldn't replace it, don't ye? Cheapskate jock, right? It's spirits, man, that's what it's there for, ya damn fool. It's for drinkin'!" Rebus grabbed his jacket and stormed toward the door. "And don't bloody lock me out unless ye want me kickin' doon the door later!"

The door banged shut.

.

III

.

Robbie started awake at the sound of the door closing. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, and his back ached in protest. The lamp was still on, and as Rebus crossed the room, Lewis saw him check to see if his host's eyes were open. Lewis sat up, stretching his sore back and rubbing some of the sleep out of his eyes. The smell of chips and cigarette smoke hung heavily around his guest.

Lewis blinked. "What time is it?"

"Half one. Did I miss my curfew?"

Lewis didn't look at him. He regretted his earlier outburst. Lack of progress in a case always made him grouchy, but that never helped matters. He had to try to repair the damage and somehow make peace with his visitor. If they could have a normal conversation, maybe they could start to work together.

Lewis understood that some animals consider direct eye contact to communicate a threat, and he decided to test the hypothesis that John Rebus was one such creature.

"Just wondered how dearly me spine is going to pay for this."

Rebus looked curious. "I'd rather sleep in my chair than my bed any day."

"Too many bad memories?" Eyes averted, expression mild.

Rebus jerked his head around at the wind-up, scowling, then broke into a wide grin. "Aye, I suppose that's it." He considered a moment. "Obviously, that's not _your _problem."

Lewis snorted. "No, my bed has too many _good_ memories."

The Scotsman softened his expression. "Your sergeant, did he help you through that?"

"He wasn't here yet. And they pulled my sergeant at the time and put her with another inspector. Not that she would have been any help."

"Leaving you on your own, eh?" Lewis didn't answer. Rebus realized he was getting in deeper than he was welcome. _But how could he work with a man he didn't know at all? _"And the pathologist is the only one you have left from that time." It wasn't a question.

Lewis looked up and met the other man's gaze squarely. There was no challenge in Rebus's eyes, only an invitation to trust.

Lewis gave a hint of a sad smile. "Yeah."

The single word explained everything to Rebus. "So, maybe not so bad if your sergeant gets his Inspector's and moves on?" _As long as you have her_, he added silently.

"I've already decided that if he does, that's when I retire. But I think Jean Innocent will make sure we're together to the end and that James gets a good place after I go."

"How is he likely to do on the exam?"

"He'll walk it."

Rebus snorted. "Graduate entry scheme looking out for its own again, eh? Or maybe not, and that's why he had to see Swanson off; he wasn't willing to play the game according to the toff rules?"

Lewis looked surprised and then a little offended. "Nothin' like that. Swanson was like you and me, John. Came up through the ranks the long way. Hathaway's brilliant, he doesn't need any help against a bloody piece of paper."

"He doesn't seem to want to talk about it."

Lewis thought, then shook his head. "That's only because it's not important to him. It's no longer something he needs to worry about." An idea clicked. "Consider him a suspect, do you?"

Rebus inhaled. "Not any more. But I had to, don't y'see? It's why I couldn't tell you everything."

"And now, you have done."

"You know everything I know."

Lewis didn't believe him, but it didn't seem to matter any more. He stood and yawned, and his eyes caught the photo of himself and Val. As happened about every tenth time he saw it, his breath caught and a sob lodged in his throat.

Rebus's dark eyes darted from Lewis to the photo, making the connection. "Would you have done anything differently, if you'd known?" His voice was gentle.

Without averting his gaze, Robbie considered his answer. No one had ever asked him that question.

"No. Not one thing." He swallowed. "I'm sorry I lost her, but have no regrets about the way I treated her. She was bloody marvelous, and I had the good sense to appreciate it." He firmed his lips into what Rebus realized was a wall against further discussion on the subject. "G'night." He shuffled off to his bedroom and all those good memories.

_No regrets_. Rebus slumped onto the vacated sofa, thinking. Perhaps more than a little envious. He had enough regrets for both of them. But as different as their personal lives were, he and Lewis were in many ways identical as detectives. They'd worked hard to make it to Inspector, fighting dismissive attitudes among their superiors and having to prove themselves over and over before being taken seriously. Of course, Rebus didn't have the disadvantage of being a transplant. He wondered how accepting the force in Edinburgh would be of a Geordie in their midst. Newcastle wasn't very far from Edinburgh in miles, but he didn't think the welcome would be any warmer there. Maybe even worse. At least there were a couple other northerners here in Oxford. Fordham was one, he remembered Siobhan telling him. Though he couldn't picture Lewis going for a jar with Fordham, who according to Siobhan seemed only interested in theatre and art. And _knitting_, of all things. How many tries had he made at the Inspector's? This had been his fourth, Clarke had said.

_His fourth_. The fact snagged the fabric of thoughts Rebus was weaving. Fordham had only come to Oxford three years ago. He'd been in Newcastle before that. Would have made his first attempt or two at the exam up there_. And DI Foster would have been one of the assessors._


	8. Chapter 8

.

I

.

Robbie woke up feeling more rested than he expected after having spent half the night on the sofa. He stretched his back. Slight ache, nothing a hot shower and a couple paracetamol wouldn't put to rights. As he got ready for work, he wondered if he should wake John. After that late night, he might appreciate a lie-in. Lewis felt better about him after their conversation. Might be a chance of them getting along now, and working together for a change. He liked this new Rebus: funny, insightful, and intelligent. Arrogant but at the same time self-deprecating. Lewis waited as long as he thought he could, then knocked on the spare room door, entering when there was no response.

The bed was empty, still made up. Lewis checked for a note, then hurried back to the kitchen and looked there, but found nothing. A thought struck him, and his eyes flew to the dish where he always put his keys. Gone. He set his jaw grimly_. Same old Rebus after all._

.

II

.

Jean inhaled and clicked her mobile to answer. "I know it can't be good news if you're ringing me before work, Robbie. What is it?"

"Let me talk to Rebus."

She frowned. "John's not here, Lewis. Why would he be?"

Lewis was tired of the charade. "Your lover-boy stole me car, Ma'am. Gone before I woke up, no note or anything."

She knew he was deliberately goading her and was wise enough to let it go. "I'm sorry, Robbie, I don't know what he's up to. Would you like me to give you a ride in?"

"I suppose you'd better, unless you plan on giving me the day off."

She ignored this, too, and twenty minutes later, they were at the station. It was still early and there weren't very many people around. Lewis walked with Innocent to her office, and she could tell when he stood shuffling his feet that he wanted to say something.

She cocked her head inquiringly. "You want my ear?"

He firmed his mouth into a line. "Ma'am, I was out of line this morning, the things I said. It's only, John and I talked a little last night and I thought we were really going to get along from now on. Then he goes and pulls this stunt, and I feel as though we're back to square one. That he took advantage of my trust."

"Oh, he'll do that, alright. He has a good heart, but he doesn't make a very good friend." _Look at what happened to me_, he could practically hear her say.

"I, erm . . . won't say anything to anyone about the other night, Ma'am. Seems like it's easy to make mistakes when he's around."

She smiled a little and put a hand on his arm. "I know you won't, Lewis, you're trustworthy. Unlike John." She sighed sadly. "I knew I might be asking for trouble, bringing him down here. But I thought all the trouble would be here, at the station. Not at home, not with my marriage. The positive result is that he's made me appreciate my husband more. I've resolved to work that out, no matter how difficult it may be." She was quiet a while.

"So . . . you have no idea where he might have gone in my car?"

Innocent shook her head. "Do you want to put out a bulletin?"

He grunted. "Nah, he must have had a new thought about something on the case. I'm sure he'll show up here in a bit."

"How about you? Had any new thoughts on the case?"

"Yeah, I have had, Ma'am. DS Fordham, y'know, was at Newcastle with me back in the Age of Steam. We were both PCs then, only I got the nod to switch to the detective track. He'd wanted it, felt entitled for some reason, and when I beat him to it, he about went spare."

"What do you mean, 'spare'?"

"At first he tried fisticuffs, but I was too good at dodging his blows and pinning him to the ground. Then he did things like slashing me tires, leaving rubbish on my desk, making hang-up phone calls, that sort of bollocks. It was odd because he rarely acted out physically. He always thought his mind was superior, though he never could have made it at university."

"I had no idea you've known him that long."

"Yeah, well, we both pretend to be strangers. Too much bad history between us."

Lewis's eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Ma'am, do you recall the team that was put on that string of bank robberies several years back? DS Stevenson got picked for that. Fordham had put in for it, but I don't think anyone believed he had the brains for it. It wasn't long after that when Stevenson disappeared."

It had been a very high profile case and Lewis had been glad not to be on it. The entire detective team on the matter had been lauded as heroes when they cracked the case, each getting a short bio and photo in the Sunday papers. An ambitious man would have relished the assignment.

Innocent remembered the case, of course. Then she snapped her gaze and fixed on him. "Oh, God, Robbie. _Stevenson_."

His brow furrowed. "Ma'am?"

"_I'm_ the one that picked him over Fordham. Well, not that it was my decision alone. But I'm the one who told Fordham he didn't get it. If Stevenson's disappearance was revenge for that . . . You'd better bring him in."

He swallowed hard. She didn't need to spell out what she was thinking. They could both be targets. "It's Fordham, isn't it? It all fits." He headed for the door of her office. "And me with no car!" Looking across through the glass-walled incident room, he could see his own office was still dark. "_Bloody Rebus_. Where's James?" He shook his head grimly as he went out.

Jean watched him go, a feeling of dread weighing down her stomach. One of their own, then. Rebus had been right about that. But he'd been wrong about her wanting him. Yes, she'd wanted the tenderness he showed, but not from him. And he'd been wrong to take advantage of her the way he had. She chewed her lip, fighting the bitterness that was rising in her. John had gladly helped her betray her marriage, just as she'd seen him do years ago in Scotland. Back then, he'd acted as though he loved her more than anything, that she was the sun and moon and stars for him. She'd let him move in with her, and she even had imagined they might get married one day. And then there came the day she arrived home earlier than expected and found him in bed with Gill Templer, and Rebus had seemed merely embarrassed. Not at all apologetic. He still hadn't learned his lesson.

But she had. She knew better and yet she invited him down to Oxford. Then she had compounded her error by falling for him all over again. The other night wasn't his fault, it was hers. _What a bloody fool!_ Hot tears spilled over her cheeks.

She heard Mary come in and realized she must look a fright. It wouldn't do to be seen like this. She grabbed a tissue and hurried out before her sergeant could see her, dashing for the ladies' room to blow her nose and splash some water on her face.

.

III

.

Rebus parked the grey Vauxhall across the end of the drive and walked the short way to the front door. He'd gleaned Fordham's address from Lewis's notepad. A quick peek at the other pages had told him Fordham was drawing the attention of the Oxford team as well. He felt a pang of guilt as it occurred to him that progress would have been made more quickly had the pair from Edinburgh been more cooperative with the Oxford detectives. _Too late now, and the lost time hadn't cost them much, had it?_

He pressed the doorbell firmly and could hear it ring. Well, Sergeant Fordham, time for a little chat with John Rebus

. Rebus could be extremely persuasive when interviewing suspects on his own terms, beyond the view of his superiors.

There was no response to the bell and the door was locked. He went around the side of the cottage and into the back garden. The lawn stretched away farther than he expected, sloping down to a wood. There were some outbuildings and a huge, neat stack of firewood. Curious but cautious, Rebus approached. As he drew nearer, he could see that what he had thought was a shed with a large chimney was really the end of a long, barn-like structure. The metal roof's slope paralleled that of the ground and at the downhill end, the building was larger, maybe five meters wide. The sliding, barn-style door stood open, which Rebus took as an invitation to enter.

Inside, he could see a hulking, domed mass of bricks occupying most of the open space. The walls of the building were lined with shelves of clay pottery and stacks of firewood. Although Rebus had limited experience with such things, he recognized that he was seeing a kiln, the oven used by a potter to fire his works and finish the glaze. _But it's massive; I could fit inside it easily_.

Rebus located the arched entry and found he was right. He _could _creep inside and would have been able to nearly stand at the center of the dome if it hadn't been filled with stacks of pots, bowls, mugs, and vases, all awaiting firing. More pots were stacked on the sloped part of the building that led to the chimney area. He admired how the pieces were packed, with shelves between each layer. _It's like one of those three-dimensional puzzles._

And then in the middle of it all he saw a piece that didn't fit, something that lacked the smooth curves of the clayware, though it was about the same color. He squinted to bring it into better focus.

_A human hand_.

Rebus suppressed a gag and bent down to peer closer in the semidarkness. It was a man's body, clothed in the uniform of a City of Oxford Parking Department employee. He scanned the rest of the stacked clayware and soon found the second body. _Swanson_. Rebus was breathing faster and realized he was shaking as he dashed out of the kiln, pulling his mobile from his pocket. And then he heard the step behind him.

Rebus whirled as Fordham kicked at the mobile, sending it skittering into the middle of a large stack of pottery. The Scotsman sized up the situation with a trained eye. Fordham was circling him, pointing a pistol at Rebus's chest. Despite the threat, John smiled.

"You don't take disappointment too well, do you, Sergeant? Foster made the mistake of not giving you a passing score on the exam you took in Newcastle a few years back, didn't he? And Swanson, he failed you last year. Why wait another year to kill him, that's what I don't understand. And how foolish, having to kill the car park attendant when you realized you'd forgotten about the CCTV in the garage? How could you know it wasn't even working?" Rebus appeared to be simply circling, but in fact his goal was to get to the open doorway. "But why Stevenson? Some kind of rivalry? And how does Richard Wright fit in?"

"They all shorted me. I deserved better, and they made certain I didn't get it." The sergeant's reddened eyes narrowed. "I know Innocent plans to ensure that I don't pass; she proved she has something against me back when she picked Stevenson over me. And Lewis . . . I owe that stupid sod from a long time ago. Once I have them, I fire up this baby—" he gestured at the kiln "—and they all disappear." He twisted a smile. "You, too."

Fordham appeared to have no intent to engage in further conversation. He pressed forward, his eyes narrowing. Rebus backed slowly, knowing he was at a disadvantage. He remembered there were shelves behind him with pots of varying sizes on some of the shelves, but not others. He'd been too occupied with examining the kiln to take a good look at his surroundings. _Fool! _His eyes darted, looking for a way out of the situation. One more step back. And another. Then Fordham lurched forward, thrusting the gun at Rebus, and the Scot spun sideways, crashing heavily into the shelves. He was going to have an ugly bruise on his hip. _You're getting too old for this, John Rebus_. But he heard a noise above him and glanced up. The impact had caused a large, thick-walled urn on the top shelf to rock forward and, as he watched, it toppled off the shelf in seeming slow motion. Rebus willed his legs to move, but too late. It smashed into thousands of pieces when it broke on his skull. He slumped to the ground, out cold, his scalp oozing blood.


	9. Chapter 9

.

I

.

James's eyes were closed but his nostrils twitched. _Coffee, dark roast_. His lids flew open and he sat up. It was a moment before he remembered why he was on the sofa and that he was not alone in the flat. A smile trickled across his lips.

.

II

.

Hathaway and Clarke arrived at the station a few minutes later than James's normal time, but he did not see Lewis's Vauxhall in the car park, so he was confident his tardiness would not be noticed. He and Siobhan had gotten to talking about their theory that Fordham was their prime suspect, and the time had gotten away on them. Now they hurried from the car, but they were stopped just as they entered the station.

"No one goes in. Active shooter onsite." James blinked at the PC, who repeated the warning robotically at another detective who had come in.

"'Active shooter'? What do you mean, someone's in there with a gun?"

The PC looked directly at Hathaway for the first time. "_Ah, Sergeant Hathaway_. Yeah, it's DS Fordham. He's in there, in the station. He has a gun." He pointed to the security office and the screens there, where the security cameras were broadcasting their terrible news.

Hathaway's eyes widened. They could see the grainy image of Fordham cross from screen to screen as he rapidly made his way through the station. He brandished the pistol, but potential targets were few, either due to the relatively early hour or because everyone who had heard was hiding under his or her desk.

"Siobhan! James! What news?"

They turned in amazement as Rebus walked through the station door. Blood was dripping into his collar, his head obviously having met with some unresisting force.

Siobhan inhaled sharply. "_Sir?_"

But he was ineffectively masking the fact that he was frantic, and he was not interested in her concern. "It's Fordham, and he's armed!"

She furrowed her brow. "We know that. He's there." She pointed at the CCTV screens, and they could see him moving from one screen to the next, occasionally pointing the pistol when some uninformed or mistakenly heroic officer provided a target.

Rebus stared. "Good God. He's going for Jean and Robbie."

The others inhaled sharply, and couldn't stop their eyes from riveting on the flickering images.

"Sir?" Siobhan persisted. "What happened to your head?"

He touched his scalp as though he'd forgotten about it. "I went to his place. He's got this kilnâ€"you know, for potteryâ€"and he pretty much jumped me. I was out for just a few minutes but my mobile was gone so I drove back here as fast as I could. Why he didn't just shoot me, I don't know." He picked at a bit of something on his wrist, and Siobhan realized it was duct tape.

Hathaway frowned grimly. "Wanted to save his bullets for here, I imagine." A thought occurred to him. "How many bullets will he have?"

Rebus frowned. "It looked like a standard-issue SIG Sauer. He probably has ten rounds, but could be as many as twenty, depending on how it's equipped." Not good news. "Where's Firearms? Why haven't they picked him off yet?" Rebus looked around and saw the Firearms officers waiting for orders.

Hathaway shook his head. "Too much glass. He's moving so fast, they can't get in position without being seen."

Moments later, Hathaway felt a tap on his shoulder and he jolted around, shocked at the interruption. He faced a middle-aged—but handsome—man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly clipped moustache.

"Sergeant James Hathaway?"

"Yeah?" He scanned the man up and down. A civilian. Must have gotten past the barrier.

"I'm Seney Innocent, Jean Innocent's husband. I understand my wife is in there?"

James recovered quickly, without showing his surprise. "Yes, I'm sorry, Sir. Erm, this is DS Siobhan Clarke, from Edinburgh, and—" He looked around. Rebus was gone.

.

III

.

Laura Hobson inhaled deeply, and dialed the phone. When Lewis picked up his mobile, she tempered her tone. "Robbie, it's me."

"Laura, erm, hi. What d'y'want?"

"I wanted to apologize for being short with you last night."

"_Short?_" At that moment, an announcement began over the tannoy. Lewis leaned over and pushed the office door shut so he could hear her. "You weren't short, you were totally within your bounds, Laura. It's me that's been short. I'm sorry I've been out of sorts lately. This bloody Scot has me turned all inside out. He's a good detective, but what—"

His attention was distracted when his desk phone rang. "Hang on, Laura, I'm gonna set you down while I take this call. Don't go." He put the mobile on his desk and picked up the desk phone.

"Yeah, Lewis."

"Sir, it's me."

"Hathaway, where are you?"

James inhaled sharply, fast. "Sir, Fordham is in the building, he's heading for you and Jean Innocent. He's threatened to shoot at anyone he can see. You need to lock the office door and get underneath your desk."

"Fordham has a gun? It really is him, isn't it?"

"Sir, didn't you hear the tannoy? Lock the door and get under your desk, _now_, okay? And don't make a sound. Put this on speaker phone and then stay low and wait for the all-clear. If he finds you, he'll start shooting."

Lewis complied, pulling his chair out from in front of his desk as he switched the telephone to speaker mode. "I feel like a bloody coward, Hathaway."

"Just let the Firearms squad take care of him, alright, Sir?"

"I'll be fine, Hathaway, I'll just be sitting tight under me desk. What about Jean?"

"She's not picking up. Now stop talking and hide."

It was only after he was hidden that Lewis remembered the mobile on his desk. _What had been his last words to her? Would he get the chance to see her again?_

Out in the security office, all they had to go on was the sound coming over the speaker phone and the images brought by the CCTV. Hathaway was the first to see movement on the one screen he'd been watching most closely.

"There. He's in CID." They kept their voices very low, mindful of the open connection between them and the telephone on Lewis's desk. They could see Fordham jog down the corridor, checking through the glass into the incident room and into any offices he passed. But the cameras did not cover everything, and he passed out of view as he headed in the direction of Innocent's office.

An eternity of silence followed. They all jumped at the blast of the gun: once, twice, three times.

Hathaway heard behind him a stuttering, wuffling sound. He turned and realized Mr. Innocent was biting his lower lip and resisting the welling of his eyes. The older man turned away to avoid letting the telephone broadcast his grief.

"That wasn't me." This was muttered almost inaudibly over the telephone. But when Hathaway heard it, and wasn't sure whether to breathe a prayer of relief or of sorrow, realizing that although his immediate boss was still safe, the gun blasts must have found another target.

Then the cameras showed Fordham returning, heading at a trot into the incident room. And, inevitably, to the inspector's office beyond the view of the camera.

"There's Rebus!" Siobhan pointed, and they could see on another screen the man crouching as he approached the incident room, staying below the glass windows of the partitions.

"He's mad!" Hathaway couldn't help but to blurt it out.

"No, he's not. He's ex-army, SAS trained, even. If anyone can do this, it's him." She tried not to sound too proud of him. Or too worried.

Fordham was off-camera again, and the silence stretched as they stared at the empty incident room on the screen. Then, another gun blast. After that, over the telephone, they heard an eerie voice.

_The voice of a killer_.

"Are you in here, Lewis? I'm looking for you. Let's see where you're hiding, shall we?"

The next bang from the gun deafened them. In it was embedded the sound of splintering and an audible gasp of pain. Two more followed. Measured, careful blasts.

Then more silence.

And a clattering, followed immediately by grunting, crashing, thumping, more crashing, rattling, gasping, a crack, a crash . . . and silence. An exhale of breath. They saw motion on the screen again, as Rebus, holding a mobile to his ear, strode swiftly down the corridor. Next, he held the mobile down, studying it, and in seconds the phone in Hathaway's pocket buzzed. He clicked it on.

"Hathaway."

"Get an ambulance for Lewis. He'll be okay but could use some help."

"What about Fordham?"

"You can get him a crew, too, if you like, but I'm not so sure he'll need it. I'm going to Jean's office now . . ."

He disappeared from view. The group gathered in the security office was motionless, soundless, waiting for his report.

Heavy exhale. "Bloody hell. Three holes in the desk and bloodspray all over the wall, bits of flesh and . . . I can see a hand under the desk . . . Jean?" His voice had turned wretched, and as tender as that of a parent soothing a child. "Jean . . . ?"

Then a shuddering gasp. "It's Mary, her sergeant. It's not Jean. But Mary . . . dead . . . she's dead. Aw, hell." He breathed in and out, twice. "Give the all clear, Sergeant, and get whoever is still in here out. Send in some PCs to clear this place, have them all report to you, unless there's someone more senior to dump this on."

"Yes, _Sir_."

It took only seconds for Rebus to rejoin them in the security office. He was shaking all over. He handed Lewis's mobile to Hathaway, and gave Clarke what was meant to be a reassuring smile. But the blood drying in his hair and on his face turned it into a ghoulish half-grin. Then his expression softened when he looked past Siobhan. She turned, too, and saw the Oxford Chief Superintendent making her way into the office, wide-eyed.

"I was in the Ladies' . . ." Barely a whisper.

As she entered, Jean's face lit with joy. Joy and love and forgiveness. Rebus started to spread his arms in welcome, a broad smile on his face. But she wasn't looking at him. She was focused on the man to his left, _her husband_, and she met him in a full-body hug that made her gasp.

Siobhan watched as her inspector deflated. Or melted, maybe, would be a better word for it, because he was left formless, like a puddle to be mopped up when the cleaning crew came through. She saw him avert his eyes, but before he could slink away, she put a hand on his arm.

"What d'y'want, Siobhan?" He sounded completely miserable.

"The TV crews, Sir. They're going to want an interview." She pointed to where several reporters stood anxiously, some with cameramen at the ready.

He sighed. "Well, it's me or that Hathaway that's left to talk. And I suppose I outrank him."

And anyway, Hathaway was occupied, moving toward the cart that emerged from the station. He put a hand out, stopping the techs from wheeling it any farther, and looked down at the man strapped to it.

"Sir?"

Lewis's eyes were open and he smiled faintly. "It's Fordham, y'know."

"It's taken care of, Sir. Inspector Rebus got him for you."

"Tell him thanks for that." Then his expression turned more troubled. "Hathaway? I was on me mobile with Laura when all this happened. She'll be a nervous wreck."

James felt a tap on his arm. He turned, and there was Hobson, relieved and worried at the same time, nodding toward Lewis.

"Sir, she's here." He moved to the rear in order to let her in close.

"Robbie? You made it, I should have known. You had me so scared." She took his hand.

He didn't say anything, maybe _couldn't _say anything for the moment, but he clasped her hand as firmly as he could. "Wait for me, Laura. I won't be long, this isn't anything. Just a little blood, a few stitches, and I'll be alright, okay?"

"I'll wait, Robbie. Take as long as you need."


	10. Chapter 10

.

.

.

Jean had given them permission to take the rest of the day off, but Hathaway, Rebus, and Clarke all wanted to finish the reports and get the case put behind them. Rebus was in charge until Lewis returned from hospital, and as the hour drew later, he was eager to be done and heading north again.

The office looked as it did any other day, except for the jagged hole where the doorknob should have been and the three others that splintered the front panel of Lewis's desk. A closer look would also reveal that Lewis's telephone cord was missing, Rebus having used it to secure Fordham in case he had regained consciousness.

Work went on in the incident room as well, where evidence was being packed up; reports were being finished; and notes, photographs, and other papers were getting filed away. But farther down the corridor, a hushed silence was maintained whenever anyone passed the taped-off suite of the Chief Superintendent. It would take some time for the office to be cleaned for use and the desk replaced, and a long time after that before Innocent would no longer feel hesitation and sorrow in using it.

But Mary's death had been the last in the series. Although Rebus had left him with some serious injuries, Fordham would survive to face his trial for six counts of murder.

Hathaway noticed that Rebus was unusually quiet in his manner once the television crews left. He touched him gently on the shoulder.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

Rebus turned, surprised. "Y'know, I don't think anyone has ever asked me that after something like this. And for once, I think I _am_ alright." He paused a beat. "But thanks, James."

Siobhan smiled to herself. She hadn't mentioned to Rebus about Hathaway's religious background. It was interesting to see that side of him. They had already exchanged email addresses and planned to keep in touch after she returned to Edinburgh. Then she saw movement across the incident room and a smile broke out on her face.

"Look who's back already!"

The other two turned and saw Lewis approaching: not very fast, but arm-in-arm with Laura Hobson.

They welcomed him heartily as he beamed. He'd changed suits; the one he'd had on was obviously ruined.

Hathaway's concern could be heard in his voice: "So, where'd he hit you?"

Lewis pulled a face. "One grazed me shoulder, one went through me leg, and one is going to make it painful to sit down for a while. But they're not serious. So don't think you're going to get any kind of a holiday from me, Sergeant."

"Robbie, I heard you were back." Jean and her husband were in the doorway of the office.

"Yes, Ma'am, I know about your sick leave policies. Didn't want to take a chance on being in violation. If I'm standing, I'd better be here."

She smiled. "Robbie, this is my husband, Arsenius. I believe the rest of you have already met him."

"Call me 'Seney,' please."

"Of course." They shook hands.

"I'm going to take Jean home now and treat her very specially." He gave her a squeeze. "And thank you, Sir, for your part in all this." He shook Rebus's hand. Rebus could barely manage to look him in the eye.

As soon as they left, Siobhan burst into an explosion of laughter. "_Arsenius!_"

Laura smirked. "'Call me "Seney," please.'"

Lewis played his part. "Of _course_." Laughing.

Rebus chuckled "'Seney', I suppose that's better than 'Arsey.'"

"'Arsenius' from the Greek 'Arsenios', meaning 'virile,' 'male.'" Naturally, Hathaway would know.

This quieted Rebus a little. "'Virile,' eh? Not 'arsenic'?"

"'Arsenic' is from the same root word."

Siobhan stage-whispered to Laura: "I _knew_ men were poison."

While the others were distracted with the joking, Lewis muttered into Rebus's ear. "I can't believe he thanked you for 'your part in all this.' If he only knew."

Rebus looked a little guilty. But he knew he wouldn't have to ask Robbie not to say anything. He was surprised to feel a tug of gratitude.

Lewis took Laura's hand. "Look, Hathaway and I can finish this work tomorrow. Why don't we all go have a pint somewhere? But not The Trout." He glanced at Laura and smiled. "One round with these jokers? Then just us." She beamed and nodded.

"Big date tonight?" Hathaway tried to hide his smirk.

"As a matter of fact, yes, not that it's any of your business. Look, I've had some time to think about things I'd like to do before someone comes and plugs me while I hide under me desk, alright?" He swallowed. "And one of those things is this." He turned to Rebus.

"I'm sorry, John, for the way I treated you. I'm glad you helped us get this sorted and I'm _really_ glad for what you did for me today. Thank you."

Laura spoke up. "You have my thanks, too, John."

Rebus smiled, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, too, Robbie. I mean it. I shouldn't have been such an Arsenius."

They laughed while they gathered their things and shut down their computers, getting ready to head for the pub.

Lewis stopped what he was doing and stood, considering. Hathaway stopped, too, waiting to see what his boss was thinking.

"How could he think he'd keep getting away with it? Fordham, I mean. Being a detective and all."

James thought. "Well, he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve the things that happened to him. That each of the victims was to blame. And once he'd killed Wright, there was no going back. He'd have to accept that it was his own doing that he failed the exam, didn't get the promotion, and allowed a murderer to go free because of his own sloppy police procedure. Not only that, he'd have to admit to himself he'd killed a person for no good reason. That he was a murderer."

"So the first murder led to the next, and the next, and so on."

Hathaway cracked a smile. "_'Blood will have blood_,' Sir."

Lewis groaned. "Enough bloody Shakespeare!"


End file.
